“Not yet.”
“That’s the definition of every day.” Tex watches me closely. “Okay, I have to ask because I’m dying to know and I’m very confused. Is Benji your type? Because I never picked up on that if he is.”
I almost choke on the sausage bite and cough before I do. “Why would you ask me that?”
“From what I’ve seen, this guy is small, about five-eight, and dresses like he’s on his way to a designer photo shoot. Don’t get me wrong. That’s not a problem as far as I’m concerned. The issue is, your type for the last decade has been blue-collar guys who could bench-press a truck. That’s why I’m asking.”
“No, he’s not my normal type. You know my type. You’ve seen them, met a few of them over the years.”
“Yes, I certainly have and your type has a one hundred percent failure rate. One hundred percent, Mickey. Couldn’tbe worse. Your type has the shelf life of a gallon of milk in July. So maybe your type isn’t working out great for you. Maybe a guy who doesn’t fit the list you’ve drawn up is worth a shot.” He holds up his hands as if he’s expecting an argument. “Just an observation.”
“Maybe it’s not the type,” I say. “It could’ve been the guys.”
“Let’s talk about that,” Tex says. “Remember the guy from Fort Walton Beach? The one who looked like a lumberjack and talked about his truck for six hours straight? You invited him to meet you at the bar on a Saturday night, dumped him after fifteen minutes, and then he spent the entire evening explaining the horsepower of his F-150 to Sheila. Sheila, who does not know or care what horsepower is, stood there trapped behind the bar for hours drying glasses and listening to his bullshit. When he finally left, Sheila said ‘well, that was fun’ and poured herself a glass of my best bourbon and we never spoke his name again.”
“His name was Kyle.”
“I remember. I’ve been calling him Horsepower Kyle in my head for two years. That’s your type, Mickey. Horsepower Kyle. A man who can deadlift three hundred pounds and has nothing to talk about except the brand of protein powder he uses and horsepower. Benji would burn Horsepower Kyle to the ground with a single comeback while applying his eyeliner and not even blink.”
I’d like to argue but the argument dies in my throat because he’s right. My type is not a list I made on purpose. It’s a list my body made for me over ten years of swiping right on the same guy in different bodies. Tall, built, beard optional,muscles mandatory. Benji checks zero boxes on that list. But last night my hand moved toward his hair unconsciously and my hand has never done that for a single man on the list. Not once.
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit. “Maybe the list was wrong the whole time.”
Tex’s eyes light up. “See, that’s what I’m saying.”
“But look at me, Tex. I can’t have a relationship with anyone.”
“I’m looking at you,” he says. “I’m looking straight at you. What’s your point?”
“I’m in a hospital bed. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel...” I stop. I don’t need to say the rest. Tex has been my best friend for twenty years and he already understands what “can’t feel” extends to.
“You know what you sound like right now?” Tex says.
“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“You sound like me last summer. Sitting in my bar worrying about all the reasons I couldn’t or shouldn’t be with Stormy. He was hurting and damaged. The power dynamic was wrong. The massive size difference. Not to mention the whole top/bottom thing that you don’t need to know the details on. Anyway, I had a whole list. You know what the main ingredient on the list was?”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Fear. I was afraid I’d do the wrong thing or wouldn’t be right for him.”
“This isn’t fear, Tex,” I say. “This is reality. My legs don’t work. My body doesn’t work. I’m about to move to Jacksonville for two months. What exactly am I supposed to offer someone?”
“Yourself,” Tex says. “The same way I offered myself to Stormy. Damaged bar, no plan, just me. And he stayed.”
“That’s different, Stormy had nowhere else to go.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and I hear how they sound immediately. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean...”
“Yeah, you did,” Tex says. “And you’re wrong. Stormy had options. He stayed because he wanted to. Because he chose me when all I had to offer was a roof, a plate of food and the fact that I didn’t hurt him. That was enough for Stormy.”
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “That was a shitty thing to say.”
“It was.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know you didn’t,” Tex says. “You’re scared and you’re lashing out. I’ve known you long enough to know the difference. Here’s the other thing I was going to say about me and Stormy. When he first came to the Roadhouse, he was scared of me. I know that’s hard to believe, but it’s true. He even braced a wooden chair against his bedroom door every single night for weeks. He was afraid I’d barge in while he was asleep and do God knows what. Stormy was traumatized and you know why.”
“I hope that fucking Ron never sees sunlight again.”
