Chapter 22 Benji #2
“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 it even 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.”
He walks out of the kitchen and through the bar to a back hallway, past the storage room and the office, to a staircase that’s wide and new-looking, the wood fresh, the railing still smelling like sawdust. Next to the staircase is a framed opening in the wall with a metal shaft visible behind it.
“That’s the elevator shaft,” Tex says. “Contractor started last week. Should be operational in about a month.”
The elevator for Mickey.
I follow Tex up the stairs. The second floor opens into a wide, bright space with high ceilings and windows facing the water. The light up here is bright, pouring through the glass and turning the raw wooden floor golden. Unfinished but beautiful.
“Stormy’s been working on this for months,” Tex says.
“As an event space. The plan was always to finish it out and start booking.” He walks to the far wall where a large sheet of paper is pinned, edges curling, covered in pencil lines and measurements and small, careful handwriting.
“Then Mickey got shot. And Stormy came downstairs one night with this.”
I step closer, and my breath hitches when I see what it is.
It’s a blueprint—a full, detailed architectural rendering drawn in pencil on heavy butcher paper.
The entire second floor has been completely redesigned into a large loft-type space for Mickey.
There’s room for a bed, a bathroom with a roll-in shower and lowered sink.
And even a small kitchen area with counters at wheelchair height in one corner.
Every doorway is marked with its width. ADA specifications are noted in small, careful handwriting in the margins.
“Stormy drew all this?” I ask.
“He did. He handed it to me like I wouldn’t want to see it.
I’ve already told Mickey about this. Stormy said, ‘I drew something. You don’t have to use it.
’” Tex catches himself. Clears his throat.
“It was the most Stormy thing I’ve ever seen.
He cares about Mickey and he didn’t know how to help him.
So, he designed him a home to come back to. ”
I’m crying. Tex lets me have the tears. He stands by the window with his back to me, looking at the water, giving me the privacy to fall apart without making it a thing. I wipe my face and look at the blueprint again.
“Benji,” Tex says, turning from the window.
His face is serious. “I need you to hear this too. Mickey has a family. It’s us.
Me, Stormy, Sheila, his mama when she can.
We’re going to take care of him. When he comes back from Jacksonville, whether he’s walking or wheeling, he’s got a place here.
He’s got people. Good people. You’re not responsible for him.
You don’t owe him anything. If you need to go back to Miami and live your life, you go.
Nobody here is going to judge you for that.
You did more for Mickey than most people do for someone in a lifetime.
The debt is paid. There is no debt.” He pauses.
“But,” he continues, “if you want to give him a chance, no matter if he recovers or not, there’s room for you here too.
You’re welcome here and I wanted you to know that. Stormy feels the same way.”
He holds my eyes for one second. Then he walks past me, down the stairs, his boots heavy on the new wood, and he’s gone.
There’s room for you here too.
My whole life I’ve been the one making room. Moving chairs closer together, squeezing one more table into a floor plan, finding space where there wasn’t any. Nobody has ever looked at a building and said let me make space for Benji.
I walk downstairs. Sheila is behind the bar, setting up for the day. She sees my red eyes and she doesn’t say a word. She just reaches under the bar and pulls out a small cooler, already packed, and sets it on the bar in front of me.
“Everything is in here,” she says. “Ribs. Sweet tea. Tex’s recipe. Half a bag of sugar, the way Mickey likes it. There are ice packs in the bottom. It’ll keep for the drive.”
Somehow, she knew I was going to Jacksonville to see Mickey. She probably knew before I did.
“Thank you, Sheila,” I say. “For everything.”
“Go,” she says. “Drive safe. Tell him we love him. And eat something on the way. You’re skin and bones, baby.”
Baby.
There she goes again using the word Sheila uses for her people, the inner circle, the ones she claims. I’ve definitely been promoted from Benji to baby and the promotion makes my vision blur. I grab the cooler and walk out before I completely lose it in the bar.
I’m almost to the car when I hear quick footsteps behind me.
“Benji, wait.”
I put the cooler down and turn. Stormy is standing in the parking lot. He’s breathing like he ran to catch me.
“Stormy. I didn’t get to tell you goodbye. I didn’t realize you were here.”
He looks down at the ground. He’s silent for long enough that I think maybe the running was the whole statement and words aren’t coming. Then he looks up. “Are you coming back?”
His question throws me.
“I hope so. I’d like to. I think we could be really good friends, Stormy.”
He nods. One quick dip of his head, so small I almost miss it.
“I’d like that,” he says. “Hope I see you again.”
He turns to go. Takes two steps. Stops. “Tell Mickey I said hello,” he says, without turning around. Then he’s gone, back inside to Tex and the life they built together.
I start the car. This time, I don’t text Mickey or hit the call button to tell him I’m coming. If I tell him he’ll have time to prepare his speech. To tell me I didn’t need to come, that he’s fine.
I want to catch whatever his face does when he sees me without warning. His face will tell me everything the moment he sees me.
It takes me almost five hours to get there. The rehabilitation facility is surrounded by palms and manicured hedges. It doesn’t feel like a hospital. I park the car and walk inside.
“Hi,” I say to the woman at reception. “I’m here to see Mickey Weaver.”
“He’s done with sessions for the day. You’re welcome to go up. But,” she glances at her screen, “he’s not flagged as in his room. He might be in the courtyard. A lot of patients go outside after sessions. You can go up to check if you like.”
The door to Mickey’s room is open and the room is empty. The bed is made. A single chair sits by the window. My cream is the only item on the nightstand.
I set the cooler on the floor and follow the hallway through the back doors to the courtyard patio.
I spot him right away.
He’s sitting in a wheelchair, angled toward the sun, his face tilted up, eyes closed. He’s alone. The afternoon light is hot and he’s soaking it up like someone who’s been breathing recycled air for too long.
He’s wearing real clothes. A gray T-shirt that fits him well. Navy athletic shorts that end above his knees. His legs are still, positioned on the footrests, but they’re visible, not hidden under a hospital blanket. His skin has color now. He’s turning his face toward the light.
I’ve never seen Mickey in sunlight. Every version of Mickey I’ve known has been under fluorescent light, and this version, the one in the gray T-shirt with the sun on his face, is so different that my feet stop moving.
My God, he’s handsome.
I walk toward him. My sneakers are silent on the concrete. He doesn’t hear me. I can’t help smiling. I have about five more steps before he knows I’m here, and my heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised he hasn’t heard it yet.