He does it in three seconds. Nobody else at his table notices.
I’m carrying a tray of empty glasses to the kitchen and my path takes me behind the bar, close enough to hear Mickey flag Tex as Tex passes with a case of beer.
“That motorcycle club,” Mickey says to Tex. “You know them?”
Tex shifts the case to his hip and glances toward the group, who have taken over two high-tops near the pool table. “No. Never seen that patch before. Might be passing through from out of state. We get that sometimes during summer.”
“Any of them regulars?”
“Not a single one. All new faces.”
Mickey nods. His eyes stay on the group for another beat and then he looks away, but the looking away isn’t relaxation. He’s moved them into his peripheral vision where he can track them without staring.
I put the tray down and go back to work. Mickey’s anxiety is a low hum that I can feel from across the bar. He’s tighter in the chair. His right hand keeps drifting to the wheel rim — not pushing, just gripping.
He catches me looking at him. I give him a quick smile and keep moving. Mickey is just being Mickey.
Twenty minutes later, I’m bringing a fresh tray from the kitchen when I see them come in. A whole crowd of men from the Bay County Sheriff’s Department. Polo shirts, khaki pants. Cops. Mickey’s people. One of them is older, fifties, silver at the temples. The sergeant, I’m guessing. The others are younger, thick-necked, the builds of guys who work out together and play softball on the weekends.
Mickey sees them. His face lights up. These are the guys. The men he worked with for years and probably hasn’t seen since before the bullet. The older man walks straight to the chair and extends his hand. Mickey takes it and the handshake lasts three seconds longer than a handshake needs to last.
“Weaver,” the man says. “Damn good to see you.”
“Sarge. You made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Tex’s big party. Brought some of the guys.”
They settle at the high-top next to the pool table — right beside the motorcycle club, who are on their third round and getting louder. The two groups are close enough that the conversations bleed together.
I put the cornbread tray down. They are new guests without drinks and that’s my department tonight. I straightenmy shirt and head over because these men just walked into a party and they don’t have plates or drinks. Nobody has welcomed them properly. That’s not how I run an event.
I reach the group and stand beside Mickey’s chair, slightly to his right, close enough to touch. My hand finds the back of his chair — not the push handle, the backrest.
Mickey quickly glances at me, then he looks back at the sergeant. “Sarge, this is Benji,” he says. “He’s helping out with the party tonight.”
Helping out with the party.
My smile doesn’t drop. Years of wedding planning trained me to hold a smile through vendor cancellations, weather disasters, and a bride’s mother who changed the seating chart four hours before the reception. I can hold a smile through a nuclear event and nobody in the blast radius will see the fallout.
“Nice to meet you,” I say. My voice is welcoming and professional. “Can I get you guys anything? We’ve got the full spread tonight. Tex and Sheila have been cooking since dawn.”
“We’re good,” the sergeant says. “Thanks.”
I nod and step back from the circle. One step. Then another. Clean and smooth, the way you exit a conversation at a reception when your job is done and the guests don’t need you anymore.
I walk to the buffet. I straighten a serving tray that doesn’t need straightening. My hands need to be doing things because if my hands stop, the rest of me stops. And if the restof me stops in the middle of this party, I’m going to come apart in front of a hundred people.
Helping out with the party.
Not boyfriend. Not partner. Not Benji who flew across the state. Not Benji who rubbed cream into his feet for two months. Not Benji who sat on a tile floor and sobbed when his leg felt a pinwheel.
I’m the fucking help.
The person you acknowledge with a job description instead of a name. And the cruelest part is that it’s almost true. Iamhelping with the party. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here because the man in the wheelchair held my hand against his chest three hours ago and I felt his heartbeat. His heartbeat said tonight is going to be good.
I’m here because I’m his.
And his sergeant doesn’t know that because Mickey made sure of it.
