“How could you possibly know that? You met him for forty-five minutes.”
“That was plenty of time. He’s a cop, Benji. He’s used to being the one doing the helping. There is no world where he asks you to drive across the state to watch him struggle. He won’t do it, so I hope you aren’t sitting around waiting for a formal invitation.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?”
“You don’t wait for a green light because Mickey is never going to give you one,” Dante says. “You just go and see what happens.”
I look down at my sandwich, finishing the last few bites without answering.
“But,” Dante adds, his voice dropping into something gentler — less lecture, more plan. “You should come home first. Drive straight back to Miami. Read your mail, check on your business, and sleep in your own bed. Be a person for a few days. And then drive up to Jacksonville to see Mickey.”
“And if he doesn’t want me there?”
“Benji.” Dante puts his phone away entirely. “I saw how he looks at you. His eyes track every move you make. He isn’t going to turn you away. Besides, going to Miami first gives you a little time to see if he’ll make the first move.”
The next morning, I drive Dante to the airport. He stands at the curb with his bag looking exactly as out of place as he did when he arrived, immaculate against a busy airport crowded with sunburned tourists flying back home.
He pulls me into a hug, full and tight, his chin on top of my head, and I press my face into his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I say into his shirt. “For coming. For helping me with the pots from hell. For everything.”
“Stop it,” he says. “You’re going to make me teary-eyed at a ratty regional airport and I refuse to do that. There are families watching.” He holds me at arm’s length, his hands on my shoulders. His eyes steady and warm. “Come home and rest first. We’ll figure everything out.”
“Call me when you get home,” I tell him. “I’ll be home soon.”
“Hope so,” he says.
He picks up his bag and walks through the automatic doors without looking back. I watch him disappear into the building and then I’m standing at the curb of the Panama City airport alone.
The next morning, I pack the car. Three weeks in the Panhandle and everything I own fits in two bags and a garment carrier. I stand in the bathroom one last time and look in the mirror. The person looking back is thinner than the person who arrived three weeks ago. The dark circles are fading. The bruise on my cheek is gone. My hair needs cutting.
But first I have one more stop.
I drive to Big Tex’s Roadhouse. It’s ten in the morning and the bar doesn’t open until later but there are trucks in the lot. The hickory from the smoker hits me before I’m out of the car.
I walk to the side door propped open with a cinder block. The kitchen smells like Tex’s strong coffee and the floor is still wet where Stormy mopped it. Tex is standing at the prep counter with a mug in one hand, wearing jeans and a faded Big Tex’s T-shirt. He sees me in the doorway and his face softens in a way I wasn’t expecting.
“Benji,” he says.
“Tex.”
He picks up a second mug and pours without asking then offers it to me. I take the coffee. It’s the best coffeeI’ve had in three weeks and the competition includes Dante’s Cuban.
“I was on my way out of town,” I say. “I wanted to come by before I left.”
“I’m glad you did. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms. “Benji, I need to say this and I need you to hear it. What happened in this bar that night shouldn’t have happened. Not to Mickey and not to you. Four men jumped you in my hallway. In my bar. A bar that I own with my partner. Four rednecks followed a gay man into a hallway and beat him and one of them was carrying a gun. I have signs on every wall.No weapons. That’s always been the rule here. And somebody walked through my door with a gun in his jacket and that gun went off. My best friend is in a rehab facility in Jacksonville because I didn’t catch it.”
He says it all straight up and I know he means every word.
“That’s on me,” Tex says. “Not on you. You came into my bar and you had a drink. You were minding your business and those men targeted you because of who you are.”
“Tex, I...”
“Let me finish. I know you feel guilty. I know you’ve been carrying it around for weeks. And I’m telling you right now, today, in this kitchen, that you are not responsible for what happened to Mickey. You didn’t bring a gun into my bar. You didn’t start a fight. You didn’t ask anyone to step in front of you. Mickey made a choice. He’s been making choices like that his whole career. It’s who he is. And I’m proud of him for iteven though it scares the living hell out of me. But that’s his choice. This was not your fault.”
My eyes are burning. “Thank you,” I say, barely above a whisper.
“Don’t thank me. I’m not done.” He waves a hand at me. “Come upstairs. I want to show you something.”
