Mickey:Noon. Sandy's Deli on Fifth. You ok?
Me: I'm ok. Need to talk to you. See you at noon.
I pick up both mugs and head upstairs. Stormy's still asleep, curled on his side now, the covers pulled up to his chin. He looks so young and fragile that my heart breaks open all over again. He's only twenty-five years old and he's lived through things that would have wrecked a person twice his age. Yet, he's here, in my bed, sleeping deep because he finally found a place where sleep is safe.
I set the mugs on the nightstand, and sit on the edge of the bed. Lightly, I put my hand on his shoulder, the way I've learned to touch him in the mornings.
"Stormy."
He stirs. His eyes open, slow, unfocused, and then they find me and sharpen. I watch the awareness come in. The letter. Every word he wrote in the dark. And I watch the fear arrive right behind the memory, the old fear, the one that says telling makes it worse.
"Morning," I say, the same as I always do.
"Morning."
"I read your letter, baby."
He goes still. That same stillness I know so well. The bracing for whatever comes next. He's lying in my bed looking up at me and he's waiting for the verdict. Waiting for me to tell him what the truth costs this time.
"Thank you," I say. "For trusting me with all that. I know what it took for you to write those words. And I want you to know how important it is to me."
His eyes are bright, filling with those tears.
I hand him his coffee because I need him to see this is a normal morning. This is coffee, this is us. This is what we do and what we're going to keep doing.
"I need to tell you something," I say. "And I need you to hear it because I should have said it before now and I'm not letting you go through another day without hearing it."
He looks at me over the rim of the mug. His hands are wrapped around it tight, shaking.
"I love you, Stormy."
His breath catches with a sharp, involuntary sound.
"I love you, baby. I love you in a way that I didn't know I was capable of before you showed up on a stolen motorcycle. I love you and nothing you wrote in that letter changes that. Not one word. Not one single thing that was done to you by people who didn't deserve to be in the same room as you."
The tears spill over. Down his cheeks, dripping off his face into the coffee he's gripping like a lifeline.
"You are the bravest, strongest person I have ever known. You survived things that should not be survivable and you came out the other side with a heart that still cares. Your heart is the most valuable thing in my entire life. And I love it just like I love every piece of you. The pieces you showed me and the pieces you wrote down last night and the pieces you haven't told me yet. All of it. All of you. There is nothing about you that I don't love with everything I have in me. Nothing will change that. Nothing."
He sets the coffee on the nightstand because his hands are shaking too hard to hold it. I take his hands in mine. Both of them, small and trembling, wrapped in my big stupid hands that have never done anything as important as holding his.
"I'm going to tell you every morning," I say. "Every single morning, first thing, before coffee, before breakfast, before anything else. I love you. And I'm going to keep saying it until you get so tired of hearing it. And even then, I'll probably keep saying it because I'm stubborn and because it's true and because you deserve to hear it every day for the rest of your life. Even when you tell me to please stop with the lovey-dovey stuff because maybe it's embarrassing you or I've said a million times by then and you already know. It won't matter. I'll still keep saying it every damn day as long as I'm breathing. I don't want you to ever forget or doubt how much I love you."
He lunges forward, wraps his arms around my neck, and buries his face in my shoulder. I hold him the way I held him in the water. The way I'll hold him every morning for as long as he'll let me. His body shakes against mine, the crying that's half grief and half relief. Maybe even half something new, the sounds of the beginning of a person who is learning that the truth doesn't always cost you everything.
I let him cry. I press my mouth to the top of his head and I don't say anything because sometimes the holding is enough.
When the shaking slows, when his grip loosens from desperate to steady, I lean back and take his face in my hands. His cheeks are wet, his eyes red, and his nose is running. He's still gorgeous.
"Now." I let the grin come out. The big one. "It's another gorgeous morning on the beach. The sun is shining, the seagulls are screaming, the humidity is already trying to kill us, and we have a bar to run. So, here's what we're going to do today. We're going to drink our coffee. We're going to eat breakfast. And then we're going to go live our best life. You and me. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow. Same as every day after that. Sound like a plan?"
The smile starts slow, then it flickers. The smile I live for. It transforms his face the way it always does, the way it did the first time I saw it. The way it will every time I see it for the rest of my life.
"Yes, that sounds really good," he says, smiling through his tears. "Tex?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"I love you too."
