I force myself to keep going.
He tried to leave three times. The first time, the man found him before noon and beat the soles of his feet with a belt so he couldn't walk. Then held ice on his ribs. Told him the world was dangerous and he was protecting him.
The second time, Tallahassee. A shelter. One night in a real bed. The man was in the parking lot the next morning. The beating put him in bed for three days. He pissed blood for a week.
I set the letter down again, and drop my face into my hands.
Stormy.
I can't do this.
I breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
The fury is a living thing inside me now, a creature with teeth and claws, and a specific target.Ron Jackson.A salvage yard in Alabama. A man with thick arms and wide shoulders who found a hungry kid behind a gas station. He smiled at him and spent four years dismantling him piece by piece.
I know his name now, and I want to kill him.
I don't mean that as a figure of speech. I don't mean that in the way people say it when they're angry at someone who cut them off in traffic. I mean that I want to find Ron Jackson and I want to put my hands on him the way he put his hands on Stormy and I want to end him.
Permanently.
I want to stand over him the way he stood in that doorway, backlit, filling the frame, and I want him to feel what Stormy felt when the door opened. I want him to know what it's like when someone bigger than you decides what happens to your body, and you can't do a damn thing to stop it.
I have never wanted to kill someone before. I've been angry. I've been furious. I've been in bar fights and parking lot brawls and I've thrown punches and taken them. But I have never sat in a kitchen at six in the morning and felt the specific desire to end another person's life.
I close my eyes, breathe and put it away. Not gone. Put away in the place where I keep the things that will need to be dealt with later, very carefully, with thought. Because what Stormy needs from me right now is not a big man consumed by rage. What he needs is what he's always needed.
Me to be steady and safe.
I pick up the letter and read the rest with dread, every word blurring my vision.
The friend Carl. The overheard conversation. The word "available." Ron offering Stormy to his friend like a tool you lend to a neighbor.
The Sportster. Keys in the ignition. Forty-three dollars. A hundred yards of gravel in the dark, pushing the bike, his heart louder than the crickets. The engine catching. South because south was away from hell.
The overhang of the souvenir shop on the beach road. The rain. The visor.
That's where you found me.
My name is Matthew. But I'd rather be Stormy forever, if that's okay with you. Because Stormy is the name you gave me. And Stormy is the one who gets to live here with you.
— Stormy
I hold the letter in my hands and look at his name at the bottom.Stormy.He signed it with the name I gave him, because that's who he wants to be. The man he wants to become.
Stormy is the man who lives here.
With me.
The sobs can't be contained, not anymore. I try to cry quietly, not wanting Stormy to see the wreck I am, but it's impossible. I cover my face with my hands and I sob my heart out for him. Then I go to the sink and wash the tears off my face and beard. Seems like I've been fixing my face a lot lately. There's nothing to be done about my red eyes. Stormy will know I've been crying. At least he didn't have to see it.
I fold the letter carefully. I will keep this letter for the rest of my life. I will keep it the way I keep the photo of my dad on opening night, close and permanent.
Picking up my phone, I text Mickey, even though it's early.Need to see you today. Can you meet me for lunch near the station? Not at the bar. Just us.
I set the phone down, and pour our coffee. Stormy's mug, three sugars. My mug, black. The routine steadies me. Pour. Stir. The smell of coffee filling the kitchen. The steam rising. Normal things. Morning things. The little things we take for granted that makes a good life what it is. And we will have a good life.
My phone buzzes.
