Page 24 of Levi

He does not bear it in mind. I already know that.

I drive him to the liquor store, where the lights are on because church is over. He’s in and out in under five minutes, a man who shops like he’s robbing the place. I watch him cross the lot with the sack riding his hip and that loose mountain roll in his walk. I quit watching one stride before he reaches the door handle. He sets the paper sack between his feet and doesn’t say thank you, and I pull out of the lot without expecting it.

The bottles clink when I turn back onto the highway.

“Don’t see any sunscreen in the bag,” I say.

“Wasn’t on the list.”

“The back of your neck is already burned. It’ll blister by tomorrow.”

“It’s a tan.”

“No, it’s a burn and you’ll feel it tomorrow.”

“Same difference.” He sets his head against the glass. “Tequila was the priority.”

“Clearly.”

We have a deal. The deal requires us working together, and neither of us pretends to enjoy it.

“The management company confirmed your booking,” I say. “It’s valid. One month rental. The seller should have told me.”

“You mean I’m not trespassing anymore.” He grins at me.

“You were never technically trespassing.”

“But you thought I was. Didn’t you?”

“I thought you were a rich kid whose daddy sent him to a beach house to dry out and you’d landed at the wrong address. It happens on this coast more than you’d think.”

“You’ve got the daddy part wrong,” he says, and turns back to the window. “My daddy only had a belt and a Bible. Definitely not a beach house.”

“Why don’t you have a car here?” I ask. “You don’t drive?”

“I drive fine. I’m an excellent driver if you must know. Taught myself at fourteen on mountain roads in a straight shift pickup truck.”

“Fourteen’s early.”

“I learned on whatever was in the yard. Wasn’t much traffic to hit.”

“Then why am I driving you around?”

“My license is a long story.”

“Where were those mountain roads?” I ask.

“Tennessee.”

His accent slides into place, and it explains the drawl and nothing else. I don’t ask. Asking is involvement, and involvement isn’t in my terms.

I pull into the driveway. “Tomorrow the crew seals the house for seven hours. You won’t be in it, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you. Seven-thirty, the curb. I’ll be here.”

“Seven-thirty? I swear, you people and your early mornings. What time do you go to bed? Eight?”

“The crew keeps banker’s hours. Take it up with them.”

“I’ll draft a letter.” He starts to get out and looks back. “The door better be wide open when I get back too.”