He's got her off the ground.
She's tiny. Maybe five foot nothing, silver hair pinned up, wearing jeans, and a blouse and sensible shoes. Tex has his arms wrapped around her and he's lifted her clean off the pavement, her feet dangling a good eight inches above the ground.
"Put me down, you giant fool," she says, but her arms are around his neck and she's not letting go either. "Put me down right now. I'm too old for this. My hip. My back. I have conditions."
"You don't have conditions. You're indestructible."
"I am sixty-three years old and I have been driving an hour on roads that look like the surface of the moon and if you don't put me down, I'm going to bite you."
He puts her down. She straightens her blouse, smooths her hair, and then reaches up and grabs his face with both hands.
"You're okay," she says. Not a question.
"I'm okay, Mama Sheila."
"The bar?"
"Standing. Beat up, but standing."
She nods once, sharp, and then she smacks him on the chest with her open palm. "Don't you ever scare me like that again. Every hour, you said. Every hour you'd call. You missed four check-ins during the storm and I was on the phone with Mickey at two in the morning ready to drive back out here myself."
"The cell towers went down. I couldn't get a signal."
"I don't care. Find a signal. Build a signal. Send a carrier pigeon. I don't care how you do it. You do not leave me sitting in my house not knowing if you're alive. Are we clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
I'm standing in the doorway. Watching. My hands are at my sides and I've got that weird feeling again. It's not jealousy this time, not the hot, tight feeling I had when I heard her voice on the phone. It's hungrier. I'm watching those massive arms that just lifted a woman off the ground like she weighed nothing, and I'm thinking about what it would feel like.
To be held like that.
Not grabbed. Not restrained. Not pinned or trapped or held down. Held. The way Tex held Sheila, with her feet off theground and his face buried in her shoulder and his whole body saying I'm so glad you're here.
What would that feel like? To be the person he picks up. To have those arms close around me and feel them tighten, not with force but with relief that I was there.
I think it would feel warm and solid. The way the building felt during the hurricane when the walls held and the foundation stayed. The world came apart outside, but the inside was okay. It might feel like something else. And I can't think about it because I'm standing in a doorway in broad daylight and now is not the time.
Sheila turns and sees me.
She goes still for about half a second, her eyes sweeping over me from head to feet. I feel it. I feel her taking in my scraggly blonde hair, the too-thin frame, the Big Tex's Roadhouse t-shirt and the way I'm hiding in the doorway.
Then she walks toward me.
"So, you're the famous Stormy," she says, stopping about three feet away. Close enough to see me clearly, far enough that I don't feel cornered. She did that on purpose. I'm almost sure she did that on purpose. "This man has not shut up about you for two solid weeks. Stormy this, Stormy that. Stormy organized the gift shop. Stormy managed the cookout. Stormy can do math in his head faster than my phone calculator. I was starting to think he made you up and was out here hallucinating from the heat."
"He didn't make me up," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of to say.
"I can see that." Her eyes are sharp and they don't miss anything. She's reading me the way Tex reads me, except faster and with less subtlety. Tex watches. Sheila evaluates.
"Well," she says, and her voice drops from assessment mode into warmth. "I'm Sheila. I've been bartending here since before this one's voice changed." She jerks her thumb at Tex. "I knew his daddy. I helped change Tex's oil when he was sixteen and couldn't figure out where the drain plug was. And I will be the one deciding whether the new hires are up to standard, so consider this your interview."
"My interview?" Now I'm worried again.
"Yes, first question. Can you tolerate this man's talking for eight or more hours a day without losing your mind?"
I glance at Tex. He's leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, smiling at us.
"I've made it two weeks," I say. "So yeah, I think so."
