“I’m going to work to be the man you deserve, Benji. Chair or no chair.”
“You already are,” I say. “And Mickey?”
“Yeah?”
“The loft. Your place above the bar. When you’re home and you’re ready. That’s where I’ll be. Both of us. No clock. Nolocked bathroom. Just your bed and all the time in the world. And when that happens, I’m going to rock your world.”
“I know that already,” he says.
I draw back to look at him. “How do you know that?”
“You don’t do anything at half speed, Benji. I’ve watched your face go from laughing to absolute fury in two seconds flat over unglazed pots. I’ve seen the way your hands move when you talk about your work like your body can’t keep up with your brain. You throw yourself at everything full force. Someone who lives like that — who goes a hundred percent at everything he touches — is not going to hold back when he finally gets me in a real bed. I know exactly what’s coming. I’ve known since the shower video. And I can’t fucking wait.”
“Me either, Mickey. Me either.”
Chapter 30: Mickey
Benji packed my boxes, labeled every single one in calligraphy, kissed me in the doorway Thursday afternoon, and left.
The next morning, I shake Jason’s hand. He doesn’t do speeches, he does handshakes. He extends his hand and I take it. He spent six weeks pushing me past what I thought my body could do and watched it do things neither of us expected.
“You showed up every session,” he says. “That’s not nothing.”
“You told me the physical part wouldn’t be my problem. You were right.”
“I’m usually right. Don’t tell my wife.” He lets go and steps back with his hands in his pockets. “Steve’s expecting your file Monday. Don’t give him a hard time.”
Leah comes in behind him. She hands me a folder — home exercise program, transfer protocols, adaptive equipment vendors.
“Don’t burn water,” she says.
“That was one time.”
“It was twice. I have notes.”
My phone buzzes.
Benji:Plant update. Are they secure? Did you use the towel padding I left? I need photographic evidence of proper packaging. Tex is not a certified plant transporter.
Mickey:George is wrapped and boxed. Frankie is in my lap.
Benji:In what vehicle? Please tell me it’s not Tex’s truck that smells like brisket.
Mickey:Yep. That one.
Benji:George is going to smell like smoked hickory for a WEEK.
Mickey:Yeah, but will I survive? Wish me luck. I’ll text you from the road.
The truck pulls up at noon. I hear it before I see it, the diesel rumble that I’ve been hearing since Tex bought it junior year with money from his first job. The sound of that engine is the sound of home the same way Sheila’s cooler is the taste of home.
Tex comes through the front doors. He’s wearing jeans and a Big Tex’s shirt.
“Are you ready to go?” he says.
“Hell yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go.” I glance up at his face that’s getting splotchy. “Don’t you dare cry, Tex.”
“I’m not crying. I have allergies.”
