"I'm dead serious," he says, smiling again, big and easy. "Turn around, let me see the full effect."
I don't turn around. There's no way in hell I'm turning around. Turning my back to him is not something my body will do right now, no matter what my brain says about it. He seems to catch this. He catches everything, I'm starting to realize, which is either reassuring or terrifying and I haven't decided which. He moves on without making it a thing.
"Alright, let me show you upstairs. Toss your wet stuff in here." He opens a door to a small utility room with a washer and dryer. I put my clothes in the washer and he adds detergent. He acts as if it's normal to wash a stranger's clothes during a hurricane. Maybe it is. I don't know his life. I don't know much about anyone else's life except my own.
We take a staircase at the back of the bar. Second floor is a big open room with windows overlooking the Gulf. Event space, he says, storage along the far wall and the main kitchen tucked at the back. I note the exits. Two windows on the east side, a door to what looks like an exterior staircase on the west. I file this away the way I file everything important.
Where can I get out? How fast can I get there? What's between me and the door?
The third floor is his apartment. It's small, like he said. A narrow hallway opens into a living area with a couch and a TV. Two doors on the left to the bedrooms. One door on the right is the bathroom.
"This one's yours," he says, opening the first bedroom door. It's small. A twin bed with a plain blue comforter, a nightstand, a lamp, a window that looks out toward the Gulf. I can hear the wind rattling the glass. "Clean sheets, extra blanket in the closet if you need it."
I step inside and look around. I'm not looking at the bed or the lamp or the comforter. I'm looking for the things that matter. The window as a second exit. I could break it if I hadto, but it's three stories up and the drop would hurt. Probably break an ankle or leg. No exterior door. The bedroom door opens inward. There's no deadbolt, just a push-button lock on the knob, the kind you can pop easily.
My hand drifts to the pocketknife in my sweatpants pocket. I touch the shape of it through the fabric and feel my heartbeat steady.
"The bathroom is across the hall," he says from the doorway. He's filling the whole frame, not on purpose, just because he's that big. "We'll share it. I'll try not to leave it messy but I make no promises. My mama raised me right but some lessons don't stick."
He starts to leave, then stops. Turns back around. His face shifts. More serious. Though serious on him still looks warmer than most people's friendly.
"Almost forgot. My house rules. Just two." He holds up a finger. "First. You got any drugs on you? Anything at all? Pills, weed, anything?"
I shake my head. No hesitation on that one.
"Good. Neither do I. We don't do drugs here. That's an easy one." He holds up a second finger. "Second. You got any weapons on you? Florida might be an open carry state but not in my bar. My house, my rules."
My hand is already in my pocket before he finishes the question. Not because I'm going to use it. Because lying about it feels worse than telling the truth, and I've learned the hard way that getting caught in a lie can be bad. I pull out the pocketknife and show it. It looks pathetic sitting in my palm. Three inches of dull steel with a wooden handle and a blade that wobbles a little when you lock it open.
He stares at it. Then he stares at me. He shakes his head slowly, and the corners of his mouth are doing that thing again, the thing where they pull up and his eyes crinkle and the whole terrifying mass of him softens.
"That's not a weapon," he says. "That's a kitchen utensil. We need to get you a better knife. I meant guns, anyway. You carrying a gun?"
I shake my head again.
"Then we're golden." He nods at the knife. "Keep your knife. Everybody needs a good pocket knife. Or in your case, a bad one."
I put it back in my pocket. My hand stays there, curled around it.
"Kitchen's downstairs," he says. "Come on, let's get you fed."
We go back down to the bar kitchen. He opens the fridge and it's loaded full.
"If you're hungry, help yourself to anything and everything you can find," he says. "Any time of day or night. You don't need to hunt me down to ask permission to eat. Make yourself at home."
He opens a lower cabinet to reveal rows of liquor bottles of every kind. "The only rule about alcohol is that it's off-limits unless you ask me first. I don't know your situation and I'm not asking, but I'm not going to put a stranger up in my house and give him free rein on the bar stock. No offense. I might go broke in a hurry."
I nod. I wouldn't dare touch his liquor.
He starts making sandwiches for us both. I stand in the kitchen not knowing what to do while he pulls ham, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes from the fridge. He stacks the breadhigh with ingredients then squishes it between another slice of bread with those massive hands. He moves around the space, talking the entire time.
He tells me about the regulars at the bar. A woman named Diamond who has been arm-wrestling men for drinks since the bar opened and has never lost. An old man named Preacher who delivers what he calls "sermons" from the end of the bar after his fourth bourbon that are apparently so profoundly strange that people have started recording them.
I don't mean to get pulled in but his stories are vivid and the way he tells them with big gestures and different voices makes the kitchen feel safer.
He never asks me anything. He doesn't try to pull me into the conversation or make me talk. He just... fills the space. Like he knows I need the space filled so I don't have to fill it myself.
The sandwich is the best thing I've eaten in forever. I try to eat it slowly so he doesn't see how hungry I am, but I think he sees anyway because he quietly slides his extra potato chips onto my plate when he thinks I'm not looking.
