“Sheila kissed me,” I say. “She came around the bar. She called me her baby and I cried in front of four regulars and a man eating buffalo wings.”
“She hasn’t come around that bar since Tex’s birthday in 2022. And that was only because the cake was too big to pass over the top.”
“I’m both honored and wrecked. I’ve only been in this building for four minutes.”
He’s smiling. “Come on,” he says. “Let me show you the place.”
He wheels through the loft with my hand in his. The photos he sent didn’t capture it. Everything designed so carefully that the accessibility disappears into the beauty of it.
“Stormy did all this,” I say, running my free hand along the counter edge. “Every inch of this is Stormy.”
“I told him it was perfect,” Mickey says. “He turned red and ran back downstairs.”
George is in the corner, tall and thriving, new leaves unfurling at the top. Frankie is on the nightstand in his blue-gray pot, facing slightly the wrong direction, which I will fix later.
“The plants look amazing,” I say. “Who’s been watering them?”
“Stormy. Every three days. Eight ounces measured in a cup. He researched the watering frequency and put it on a calendar. He won’t let me or Tex near the plants in the building.”
I reach over and turn Frankie a quarter turn to the left so his best rosette faces the window light.
“You’re here thirty seconds and you’re already redecorating,” Mickey says.
“I’m adjusting. Frankie’s best leaves need the light source. It’s about his personal brand. Every living thing has an aesthetic, Mickey.”
He’s watching me fuss with a succulent’s orientation in his bedroom and his eyes are warm. I could stay in this moment forever.
Footsteps are coming up the stairs. Quick and light. Stormy appears at the top of the staircase and stops when he sees me.
I cross the room and wrap my arms around him before he can brace for it. His body goes stiff for one second and then he relaxes into it.
“The tile,” I say into his shoulder. “Stormy. The blue-gray tile. You matched the Gulf at seven in the morning when the clouds are low. I would have chosen the same one.”
He pulls back. His face is pink. “It’s not exact. The water shifts depending on cloud cover and time of day.”
“It’s absolutely perfect. You have an eye for this, Stormy. The colors, the layout, the way everything flows. Do you know that? This isn’t just functional. Someone with taste did this.”
The pink deepens on his face. “I brought food,” he says, holding up a bag that I didn’t notice he was carrying because I was too busy hugging him. “Sheila made plates. Brisket. Sweet potatoes. Greens.”
“Thank you, Stormy,” I say.
He sets the bag of food on the counter, smiles at both of us, then leaves without another word. He delivers food, accepts a hug, disappears before the moment gets too big. That’s Stormy.
Mickey wheels to the sliding door. “Eat on the deck?”
“You bet.”
I carry the food outside. The deck is smooth composite planking, gapless, wide enough for his chair to turn. The water stretches out in front of us, blue going gold as the afternoon leans toward evening. We eat side by side at the railing, the brisket as perfect as it always is, and for a few minutes we don’t talk. We’re finally exactly where we want to be.
“Mickey,” I say, setting my empty plate on the railing. “Can we go down to the hallway together?”
He doesn’t ask which hallway.
“You sure?” he asks.
“I’ve been avoiding it. Every time I came here, I kept my eyes forward. I didn’t look at it. I walked past it like if I didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. And I don’t want to do that anymore. Not today. Not in front of you. I want to face it with you and get it over with.”
“Then let’s go.”
