Ron's motorcycle was in the shop bay. He'd been rebuilding the carburetor, had the keys in the ignition because he was going to test it in the morning. My duffel bag was upstairs. Forty-three dollars in cash was everything I had in the world.
I waited until they were both deep into a bottle of Jim Beam. I moved quiet. I'm good at quiet. I've been practicing quiet since I was ten years old. I got my bag. I went down the back stairs. I walked the bike out of the shop bay and down the gravel drive without starting the engine. I pushed it a hundred yards down the road in the dark, gravel under my shoes, my heart beating so hard I could hear it over the crickets.
I climbed on and turned the key. And for one second before the engine caught, I thought about every other time I'drun and every other time he'd found me. I almost got off the bike and walked back inside and went to bed because that's what I'd learned. Running doesn't work. Running makes it worse.
He will always find me and drag me back there.
The engine caught. I twisted the throttle and I was gone.
I went south because south was away and away was the only direction that mattered. I didn't have a driver's license. I didn't have a phone. I didn't check the weather. I didn't have a destination or a plan or any reason to believe this time would be different from the other times. Except that I was on a motorcycle instead of a bus and a motorcycle is faster than walking and maybe faster was enough for once in my goddamn life.
I rode until the gas ran low and then I put in what cash I could spare and I kept going. I rode through the night and into the morning, and the sky started to change color in a way I didn't understand yet, going gray and yellow and heavy. The wind picked up. The rain started. I kept riding because stopping meant he was catching up and catching up meant it was over.
I ended up under the overhang of a souvenir shop on a beach road in a town I'd never heard of, in rain that was coming sideways. I was on a stolen motorcycle with only a few dollars left and a knife that couldn't cut butter and no idea that a Category 5 hurricane was about to make landfall right on top of me.
That's where you found me.
That's the whole story. That's who I am. That's who I was before I was Stormy. A kid who has been running fromrooms and men and hands in the dark since he was ten years old. Who has never had anyone come back for him, who learned that kindness is a trap and nothing is ever free. And if someone is nice to you it's because they want something and the something they want is always your body.
That's my story.
My real name is Matthew. But I'm not Matthew anymore.
I'd rather be Stormy forever, if that's okay with you.
Because Stormy is the special name you gave me.
And Stormy is the one who gets to live here with you.
—Stormy
I put the pen down. My hand is cramping from writing. The bar is so quiet I can hear the ice machine humming in the kitchen.
I read it back. All of it. Every word. I don't change anything because changing it would mean editing the truth and the truth doesn't get edited. It gets told or it doesn't. This is me telling it.
I fold the pages. Once, twice. I write TEX on the front in block letters. I carry it to the kitchen.
His coffee maker is on the counter. The one he sets up every night before bed so all he has to do in the morning is press the button. The mugs are already out. The sugar is already next to mine.
I set the letter next to his mug. Leaning against it so he'll see it the second he reaches for the coffee.
Then I go to our room. He's on his back, one arm thrown above his head, breathing deep and slow. I take off my clothesand I climb into bed. I fit myself against his side, my head on his chest, my arm across his stomach. He stirs and his arm comes down around me, automatic, even in sleep, pulling me closer.
"Hey," he mumbles. Half asleep. "Where'd you go?"
"Nowhere," I say. "I'm right here."
His arm tightens and his breathing evens out.
I lie there with my ear over his heart and I think about the letter. In a few hours he's going to wake up, reach for the mug and see his name in my handwriting. He's going to sit on his stool and read every word and then he's going to know me.
All of me.
I'm not afraid.
For the first time since I tried to tell my Mama, I'm telling the truth and I'm not afraid of what happens next. Because whatever happens next, he's here. And he's not going to open a bottle and close a door. He's not going to say I'm making up stories.
He's going to read it and then he's going to make coffee. And then he's going to come back to this bed and hold me. He'll joke and make me laugh. I've told him my worst.
