“Me too. Because of all that, I made up my mind that if I needed to, I would wait for him forever. Sure, sex is agreat thing. Not gonna lie. But after the trauma Stormy went through, if sex needed to come off the table forever, then so be it. I fell in love with him, the person. Not with his body. I would’ve done whatever it took to have a life with Stormy.” Tex leans back in the chair until the frame groans under him. “Here’s what I know. You’ve been alone for a long time, and you’ve been pretending it doesn’t bother you. And you’ve been choosing men who leave because choosing men who leave means you never have to find out whether you’re worth staying for. Am I right so far?”
“Probably.”
“So now there’s a guy who keeps showing up, who keeps coming back, who drives two hours and sits in this chair. Don’t throw that away because you’re scared. It’s okay to be scared. Be terrified. But don’t let it be the reason something good doesn’t happen to you.”
I look at my best friend. He drove two hours to bring me biscuits and is building me an elevator so I can live above his bar. He found Stormy during a hurricane, brought him home and loved him until a guy who couldn’t speak learned that he was allowed to. If anyone on this earth knows what he’s talking about when it comes to loving somebody through the hard parts, it’s Tex.
“I don’t know what this is with Benji,” I say. “Maybe nothing. I know he’s coming today and that matters to me. What I don’t know is why.”
“You don’t have to explain it,” Tex says. “Just let it breathe. Give it a chance. Don’t slam the door on it because it’s different from what you’re used to.”
“Sometimes you give good advice, Tex. Not always, so don’t get the big head. But enough that I listen when you dole it out.”
“And I always do the same with you.”
Before noon, he stands up. He’s got the bar, the drive, places to be and I don’t.
“I’ll come to Jacksonville,” he says at the door. “As soon as you’re settled. Stormy’s got you covered with the space. He’s on a mission to get the place ready if you need it. Love you, brother.”
“Love you too,” I say.
Then he’s gone.
Chapter 14: Benji
Wake up. Coffee. Vendor calls. Drive two hours east on I-10 with the windows down and the sun tracking across the windshield. Spend an hour in Mickey’s room — sometimes ninety minutes if the nurses look the other way. Drive two hours back in the dark. Fall asleep on the condo couch with my laptop open and a half-finished seating chart on the screen. Wake up. Do it again.
It’s been long enough that the routine doesn’t feel like a choice anymore. I don’t decide to drive to Tallahassee. I just end up on I-10 the same way I end up brushing my teeth — because not doing it isn’t an option. The wedding work happens around the edges — mornings before the drive, nights after the drive, phone calls from parking lots and rest stops, and the gas station where I’ve bought so many energy drinks the cashier knows my order.
Dante calls it Groundhog Day. “You’re living the same day on repeat,” he said last night. “Vendors, highway, hospital, highway, couch. The only thing that changes is the menu.”
Today the texting starts mid-morning and the conversation doesn’t stop. It runs underneath my entire day, something I can reach for between vendor calls and chair color emergencies.
Mickey:Tex showed up here early this morning. He brought biscuits and life advice. The biscuits were better.
Benji:What kind of life advice?
Mickey:Unsolicited. The kind I didn’t ask for and probably needed.
Benji:That’s the best kind. Also the worst kind. Dante specializes in them. What time should I come today?
Mickey:Whenever you want. I’m not going anywhere.
Benji:What do you want to eat?
Mickey:Surprise me.
Benji:You’ll learn that’s a bad thing to tell me, Officer Weaver.
Later, I’m getting off the phone with the florist confirming delivery times when my phone buzzes on the counter. Mickey sending a photo of his hospital lunch, a tray of gray meat, limp green beans and a carton of milk, with the caption “identify this protein.” I type back “that’s not protein, that’s evidence.”
I send him a photo of the wrong-shade-of-ivory chairs stacked in the beach house garage with the caption “these chairs are ruining my life and my will to live.” He sends back “they look white.” I send back a string of curse words that would get me banned from most social platforms. He sends back “I showed the nurse your chair photo and she said they look white too. You’re outnumbered.”
I’ve been missing this in my life. Not the flirting. Or the texting. The ordinary part — having someone send you a photo of bad hospital food and ask your opinion on it.
By mid-afternoon I decide to give him one more chance to tell me what he wants for dinner. After seeing his hospitallunch plate, I don’t want to show up with something he doesn’t like.
Benji:Last chance. What do you want for dinner tonight?
