"Black again? You know they make clothes in other colors, right? Colors exist. The whole rainbow is available. There's a blue pair right there that would bring out your eyes." He glances at me in surprise. "I'm going to stop talking now because I just heard what I said. How about shoes?"
He looks down at the beat-up sneakers he's been wearing since I found him. They're in bad shape. The soles are separating and there's a stain on the right one that might be mud or no telling what since they've been through a hurricane.
He picks out the cheapest pair of tennis shoes on the rack. I don't argue. I don't push. This is his money and his choice. I'm not going to turn this into a thing. But when he's not looking, I toss a pack of socks and a decent pair of flip-flops into the cart because the kid needs something to wear on the sand. We're on a beach, for Christ's sake.
I also grab a hot pink bathing suit off a rack and toss it in the cart on top of everything else.
Stormy looks at it. Looks at me.
"You live on the beach now," I say. "You need a bathing suit."
"It's hot pink."
"Hot pink is very in right now. I read that somewhere. Possibly on the back of a cereal box. The point is, you'll be visible from space. Nobody loses a man in a hot pink bathing suit. It's a safety feature. I'm only looking out for you. And it's the only one in your size. Tragic coincidence. Nothing I could do about it."
It was not the only one in his size. There were at least four other options but he doesn't need to know that.
"Also, I'm getting myself one." I grab the same suit in an XXXL. "We'll match. It'll be a whole thing. The locals will talk about us. 'There go the pink boys,' they'll say. 'Those boys sure do love pink.' It'll be our new brand."
Stormy shakes his head at me.
"One more thing," I say as we head toward the registers. "I want to make it very clear that even though you now own real clothes, I fully expect you to continue wearing the Property of Big Tex's Roadhouse t-shirt at least three days a week. For marketing purposes. You're a walking billboard, Stormy, and I'm not giving that up without a fight."
He rolls his eyes at me. "Is that in my employment contract?"
"It is now. Paragraph seven, subsection B. Mandatory branded apparel. It's ironclad. You're a brand ambassador now."
"You don't have an employment contract."
"I'll have Sheila draw one up. She'll put it in there. She'll put anything in a contract if it means she gets to boss someone around. It's her love language. You'll see."
We drive back to the bar with the Walmart bags in the back. The roads are still rough, debris piled up on the sides. If past history is anything to go by, the debris will still be here a year from now, but at least it's off the road. The power lines are temporarily patched. The beach road is passable now, and you can see the recovery starting. People on roofs, tarps and plywood, the sound of generators and hammers.
Stormy carries his bags upstairs and I start prepping dinner. When he comes back down twenty minutes later, he's wearing a new pair of black shorts, white t-shirt and the flip-flops I snuck into the cart. He looks like a different person. Not because of the clothes. He's carrying himself straighter. Lighter. Like the weight he's been hauling shifted by a few pounds and the relief is showing in his spine.
"Look at you," I say. "Florida beach casual. You're practically a local now."
"The flip-flops were not on my list."
"I don't know what you're talking about. Those were always in the cart. I have no memory of putting them there. They must have jumped in on their own. Flip-flops are drawn to people who need them."
After dinner, we sit on the roof with our beers and watch the sunset. I think about this morning. The chair. The bruises. The knife under the pillow. The words that took me apart.
I don't have anywhere to go.
He sure as hell does now.
Chapter 10: Stormy
Sheila arrives on a Tuesday morning in a pickup truck that might be older than I am.
I hear her before I see her. The truck engine cuts off in the parking lot, a door slams, and then there's her voice, loud and clear and carrying across the concrete like it was designed for projection.
"Tex, get your oversized behind out here right now."
Tex drops the sander he's holding, and his whole face changes. I've seen him happy before, seen the smiles and the crinkles and the laughing-at-hurricanes version of happy, but this is different. This is the face of a kid who just heard his substitute mama's voice, and he looks about twelve years old right now.
He's across the bar in four steps. Out the door. And then I hear it, this sound that's half laugh and half pure joy. I move to the doorway to see.
