But he’s already asleep. His breathing is even and his face is pressed against my skin. I don’t know where his remark came from. He’s in my bed, I’m holding him and I’m not disappearing. I’m right here.
Something happened yesterday that I missed. Something that made him say fine when he wasn’t fine and don’t disappear when I’m lying right here holding him.
I run the day back again. Mama’s house, the kitchen, the cobbler. Pier Park. The candy store. Jim. The railing. His face at the railing, turned toward the water.
I don’t see it. The cop brain runs the footage and comes back with nothing actionable. A neighbor said hello. I said hello back. We talked about the yard. That’s the whole tape.
I fall asleep.
In the morning he’s dressed before I’m fully awake. His bag is packed. The linen shirt from Friday is folded on top. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed lacing his shoes.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey.” He turns and smiles, but there’s something behind it that I can’t reach.
“Let me ride down with you.”
We take the elevator together. Benji puts his bag in the trunk of the rental, closes it and then turns around and looks at me.
He doesn’t say anything. He just steps forward, bends down, wraps his arms around my neck and holds on. I pull him in. My face against his chest. His chin on top of my head.
“Two weeks,” he says into my hair. “Then I’ll be right back here.”
“Call me when you land.”
He kisses me. Long and slow and thorough, his hand on my jaw. Then he pulls back and gets in the car. I watch the rental turn out of the parking lot and disappear down the road. I sit in the empty parking lot for a minute before taking the elevator back up. The bell chimes when the doors open and the loft is quiet.
Everything is where it belongs.
Except Benji.
Chapter 37: Benji
I swing by Dante’s apartment on the way home. He’s on the couch with his laptop and a glass of wine. He’s wearing a cashmere sweater in July because Dante keeps the AC at sixty-four degrees and dresses for the climate he creates rather than the one he lives in.
“You look tan,” he says, glancing up.
“I was on a deck for four days.”
“You also look like you’re going to sit and tell me everything. And I’m going to need more wine for that.” He closes the laptop. “There’s pad Thai in the fridge. The good kind. I ordered it an hour ago because I knew you’d land hungry and sad. I’m not dealing with hungry-sad Benji on an empty stomach.”
“Here’s your candy,” I say, dropping the bag on the table in front of him before heading to the fridge.
I eat the pad Thai on the couch while he digs into the candy bag. Dante pours me wine I didn’t ask for and I drink it because Dante’s instincts about what I need are better than my own.
I tell him the good parts first. The loft, the deck, Stormy, the nights. Mickey talking about going back to work, getting the truck fitted with hand controls, rebuilding his life piece by piece. The 30A wedding plan and how Mickey didn’t try to talk me out of it. His mother holding my hand and inviting me back. Mickey introducing me as his boyfriend at the kitchen table.
“That’s a good man,” Dante says. “I like it.”
“He is.”
He’s watching me and not saying a word. Dante doesn’t push. Dante creates space and waits for you to fill it.
“We went to an outdoor shopping center after his mom’s house,” I say. “It’s on his old patrol route. I wanted to see more of his town. We went to a candy store. That’s where I got your taffy.”
“The taffy is excellent, by the way,” he says. “The key lime is transcendent.”
“While I was shopping, a neighbor recognized him. He lives two doors down from Mickey’s house. Nice guy. Talked to Mickey for three minutes about his wife, his yard, the recovery. Offered to bring him casseroles.”
