Chapter 8 Benji
The next afternoon, I pick up a pizza for Mickey because it’s the one thing I can do.
I can’t fix his spine or travel back in time and get off that stool when Sheila told me to.
But I can sure as hell walk into a pizza place and order an extra-large, double stuffed, everything on it with extra pepperonis pizza.
The surest way to every straight man’s heart.
I carry it into the hospital like I belong there, which apparently is all the security the building requires. I also bring two cold brews from the tiny place down the street, because he requested it.
I’d spent the morning at the beach house with Callie’s mother, who had strong opinions about everything. I smiled through all of it and said “absolutely” to whatever she wanted.
I’m wearing the same outfit I wore for the client meeting, a fitted linen shirt and pants and my favorite silver chain, because showing up to a consultation in a wrinkled T-shirt is not something my career can survive.
So here I am, strolling through the spinal unit carrying a pizza box in linen like I took a wrong turn to Sunday brunch.
I knock lightly when I reach his door.
“If you’re a nurse, I’ve already rated my pain at a four and I don’t want lime Jell-O,” he calls from inside.
“I have a pizza delivery for an Officer Mickey Weaver,” I call out.
“What kind?”
“Extra-large. Double stuffed. Everything on it. Extra pepperonis.”
“What are you waiting for? Get in here.”
I’m already smiling when I push the door open with my hip because my hands are full.
He’s sitting up today, the bed raised, pillows behind him, and he looks better than last night. More color in his face, more sharpness in his eyes, that jawline freshly shaved. Even in the hospital gown, even with the monitors and the tubes, he still looks damn good.
He’s bigger than I remember. That sounds wrong because he’s lying in a bed and can’t move, but the bed looks too small for him.
His shoulders take up the whole width of the pillow and the hospital gown gaps at the neck where the ties don’t close.
I look away before my eyes go somewhere they shouldn’t. I hate myself for looking.
His blue eyes move from the pizza box up to my face and then down to my outfit. “Is that how pizza delivery guys are dressing these days?” he says. “Kinda fancy, isn’t it?”
“I came straight from a client meeting. I didn’t have time to change into my hospital casual.”
“You look like you’re about to sell me a timeshare,” he says.
“Damn, you caught me red-handed. Trust me, you’ll love it. Floor six, ocean views, very competitive financing.”
This actually gets a smile out of him. I take that as permission to move further into his room. I set the pizza on the rolling tray table and hand him the coffee, then pull the chair closer to the bed.
“Here’s your coffee. As requested. The woman behind the counter told me the cold brew is aggressively caffeinated. Her words, not mine. Are you even allowed to have that? Should I go check with the nurse first?”
“Don’t you dare! Who is going to stop me?”
He twists the lid off and takes a long sip. His eyes close for half a second, and when they open the tight line of his jaw has softened. The hospital coffee must be worse than he’s letting on. Days of that stuff will break a man.
“That is the best thing I’ve had today,” he says. “The food here is terrible and my food standards aren’t that high.”
“That’s why I brought pizza,” I say. “No man should be forced to survive on Jell-O and whatever that gray stuff I saw on your tray last night.”
“That was supposed to be meatloaf. I couldn’t eat it.”
“Are you on a special diet? Will I get in trouble for bringing you pizza? I’m sorry, the thought didn’t occur to me until now.”
“I swear, Benji, if you walk out of this room with the pizza box, I’ll kill you,” he says. “Bring it to me and let’s eat.”
I lean closer and open the pizza box right under his nose. The smell fills the room, warm and greasy.
“Oh my God, that smells delicious,” he says with a groan.
“Hang on, let me put a slice on a plate for you.” I grab a paper plate out of the bag and carefully transfer the biggest slice onto it for him. “Be careful about the cheese. It’s still hot and you don’t want to burn your tongue.”
He picks up the slice and bites into it. “Damn, this hits the spot,” he says. “Thank you.”
I sit in the chair pulled close to the bed and take a slice of my own. For a few minutes we just eat. The room is quiet except for the beeping monitors and the soft hum of the air system.
It’s not the best pizza in the world. The cheese is mediocre and the pepperoni is doing its best and none of that matters because the point was never the pizza. The point is me having a legitimate reason to sit in this chair beside him.
He’s almost finished with his second slice when he sets it down on the plate, wipes his hands carefully, and turns those blue eyes on me with a directness that makes my stomach tighten.
This is a different look than last night. Last night he was groggy and worn down from the day. Today he’s rested, clear-eyed, and the cop is right there at the surface, the part that asks questions.
“I need you to tell me what happened at the bar,” he says. “I’ve already asked Tex and I’d like to hear your version. Tex said it was hard to talk about and I’m sure it will be for you too. I’ll only ask once, I swear. Then we’ll put it down.”
“You were there.”
“Only for the last minute. I was there for the part where I came down a hallway, saw a guy bleeding on the floor and four guys who needed to not be standing. That’s my version. I want yours. From the beginning. Tell me everything and don’t leave anything out.”
“Your cop voice is making me nervous. Seriously. You really want to do this, right now? Don’t you want to finish eating first?”
“No, I need to hear it so we can get it over with. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”
I put my pizza down and take a deep breath. The whole night is right there, waiting for me to open the door and let it back in.
My eyes burn and my throat goes tight. I jump up to go to the window to keep from looking at him. How can he stand to look at me? We were having a nice moment eating pizza and now he wants me to talk about this.
But he deserves to hear it, and I’ll tell him.
“Benji?” he says. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, just give me a second.” I start to wipe my eyes with the backs of my hands and stop when I realize I’ve got pepperoni grease on them. “Damn it.” I grab a napkin instead and dab at the corner of my eyes.
I go back and sit in the chair. He deserves the story no matter how hard it is for me to tell it.
“I wanted to watch the sunset,” I say. “That’s it.
That’s the only reason I was at Tex’s bar.
I’m in town doing a wedding on 30A, and I’d been cooped up in a rental condo with a parking lot view for three days.
I wanted to sit somewhere with a cold drink and watch the sun go down over the Gulf.
That’s all I wanted. Because I’d heard the sunsets are prettier here than in Miami. ”
“You’re working a wedding on 30A?” he asks. “I drive that road all the time. Not on patrol. Just passing through.”
“Yes, it’s a gorgeous location for a wedding. Everything is white. But there’s nowhere to sit on the beach with a drink and watch the sunset like a normal human being. So, I searched online for beach bars with a Gulf view and Tex’s place came up. Good reviews. Best brisket. So, I went there.”
“And you walked in alone during car show weekend,” he says.
“I didn’t think anything of it. Why would I? I’m not ashamed of who I am and I’m not going to hide it.”
He’s watching me with that steady cop attention, his pizza forgotten, his hands resting on the blanket.
“The car show guys noticed me right away,” I say. “Four of them at a table near the bar. Matching T-shirts, sunburned, drinking all afternoon. One of them came over and told me I might be more comfortable somewhere else. Told me it was a man’s bar. I told him last time I checked, I was a man.”
“How well did that go over?”
“About how you’d expect. He went back to his table and they all started staring at me.
And then Sheila came to me and said, ‘Those boys have been drinking since three o’clock and they’re looking for a reason.
Don’t give them one.’ She offered to call me a cab.
I guess she didn’t know I’d driven my car there. ”
“What did you say?”
“I said no. She asked me again twenty minutes later. She told me she’d been doing this for thirty years and she knew what was coming. She even said please.”
“And you said no again.”
“Yes, I said no again.” I look away when my voice cracks.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t willingly leave rooms just because someone else says I don’t belong there,” I say.
“Because I have been walking into rooms where other people believed I didn’t belong since I was twelve years old.
Locker rooms and churches and bars in red counties.
Maybe someone decides my face is wrong or my shirt is too fancy or God forbid I’m sitting with my legs crossed.
And all that means I’m something they get to push out because they don’t think I deserve to be there.
And I have never, not once in my entire life, given anyone the satisfaction of watching me get up and leave because they made me feel like I didn’t belong. ”
I stop for a moment and take a deep breath.
“Then Sheila asked me a third fucking time,” I say. “Right before I went to the restroom. She practically begged me. Three times she tried to save me from myself and three times I told her no.”
“And then you went to the restroom.”