I get up. Not because I want to leave this moment, but because he needs a minute and I know that. I know him well enough now to know that being watched while he cries is worse than the crying itself. I go to the stove and pour two fresh cups of coffee, taking my time, giving him the space to feel what he's feeling without an audience.
When I come back, he's wiped his face with the back of his hand and his eyes are red but the tears have stopped. I set his coffee in front of him and sit back down.
"I can't pay you much right now," I say. "Not until the bar reopens and we start bringing in revenue again. But I'll pay you what I can, and once we're back on our feet, we'll figure out a fair wage. The bar slows down after the big bike rally in October, then we'll have until March to get everything ready to go big for next year. With you helping me, there's no limit to what we can do. We can build a bigger deck and maybe expand the space on the second floor for weddings and receptions. You'll have a job here as long as you want one. Oh, and don't forget you get a beachfront room with a view. I read that on anAirbnb listing and thought I'd throw that in there to help you decide to take me up on my offer."
He picks up the coffee. His hand is shaking badly enough that the liquid trembles in the mug.
"I've been watching you work," I say. "And I want you to hear this, because I mean every word. You are one of the smartest people I've ever met. The way you organized that gift shop was better than anything I've done in years of running this place. The way you managed the cookout, the rationing, the way you can look at a problem and solve it before anyone else has even identified it. I need someone like you, Stormy. Not just for the rebuild. For the long run. This bar needs what you've got. You've seen me work. I'm all heart and muscle, but the organizational part of my brain doesn't work the same way as yours. I need you. Me and Sheila can barely keep things going. What do you say?"
He's looking at his coffee. His jaw is working, the way it does when he's turning over something so big, he doesn't know if he can speak the words.
"You don't have to answer right now," I say. "Think about it. Take your time. I understand it's a big decision. I don't want to pressure you."
"I don't need to think about it." He looks up. His eyes are still red, his face is still wet and his voice is still rough, but when he speaks, it's the steadiest I've ever heard him sound. "I want to stay."
"You do?"
"Yes, I want to. Thank you."
"Alright, then. Glad that's settled." I pick up my coffee, take a drink and act like my own eyes aren't stinging. "Eat your eggs. They're getting cold and I refuse to let you start your firstofficial day on an empty stomach. One more thing, speaking of stomachs. I don't remember ever seeing you, not one single time, go into the kitchen and get yourself something to eat. Want to tell me why?"
He shakes his head. "I eat when you eat."
"You're also allowed to eat when I'm not eating. If you're hungry, go fix yourself something. Even in the middle of the night. You can fix something for me too, because I never turn down food. I'm always hungry. Got it? There's no reason for anyone to go hungry when we're overstocked with food."
He nods, picks up his fork and eats. He doesn't say anything for a while, and I let the silence be what it is, which is two people sitting in a kitchen having just crossed a line they can't uncross. He has a place now. Not a borrowed room, not a favor, not a temporary arrangement that could be revoked at any moment. A place. A job. A reason to stay that isn't fear.
We work through the day. It's a good day. Productive. Steady. We finish pulling the last of the damaged drywall and start prepping the walls for new material. The power came back on yesterday and the air conditioning is running. Thank fuck. The building feels alive again in a way it hasn't since before the storm.
Stormy works with a focus I haven't seen before, which is saying a lot because this kid works harder than anyone I've ever met. But today it's different. Today he's not working to earn his place. He's working because it is his place.
In the afternoon, I tell him to knock off early.
"Why? What's going on?"
"Because I just hired you, and you own approximately three pieces of clothing, two of which say Big Tex's Roadhouse on them. While I appreciate the free advertising, I can't havemy employee walking around in the same sweatpants for the rest of his life. We're going to the big Walmart on a shopping spree."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know I don't have to. I want to. Consider it payment for the work you've already done." I pull my wallet out, take some cash and hold it out to him. "This is yours. Buy whatever you need. Shorts, t-shirts, shoes, caps, whatever. It's hot as hell and you've been wearing the same pair of black sweatpants for almost two weeks and I'm frankly amazed you haven't melted."
He looks at the cash in my hand and doesn't take it.
"Stormy. Take the money."
"I'll pay you back."
"No, you will not. Stop that. This is payment for work. You've already earned it ten times over. Take the money and let's go before the good stuff is picked over. Hurricane shopping is competitive. Those Walmart aisles are a war zone right now. I've seen things that would make a combat veteran flinch. After Hurricane Michael a woman body-checked me into a display of pool noodles for the last case of bottled water. Me and the noodles went down like a sack of potatoes rolling across the floor. She didn't even look back. I respected her energy."
He takes the money. Carefully, like it might be a trap. Folds it and puts it in his pocket and doesn't look at me.
The Walmart is chaos, which I expected. Half the county is here buying rebuilding supplies, and the clothing section has been picked through pretty thoroughly, but there's enough left. I grab a cart and tell Stormy to fill it up.
He doesn't know how to shop. That becomes clear almost immediately. I'm not sure he's ever been shopping before. Not really. Where has this kid been living? He stands in the men's section looking at the racks like he's trying to decode a foreign language. When he reaches for clothing, it's always the cheapest option, the most basic, the thing that takes up the least space and costs the least money. He picks up a three-pack of plain white t-shirts and puts them in the cart and looks at me like he's asking permission.
"Stormy, you don't need to look at me every time you touch a hanger. Put things in the cart. That's how shopping works. The cart is hungry. Feed the cart. You also need shorts. It's nine hundred degrees outside and you're walking around in black sweatpants. I'm getting worried about you."
He picks out two pairs of basic athletic shorts. Black. He gravitates toward black, I'm noticing. Things that don't stand out. Things that disappear.
