Epilogue Benji
Three months later…
Mickey is at the curb when I land.
He’s been doing this every two weeks. I fly up Friday evening, land at nine, and the silver truck is idling at arrivals with Mickey behind the wheel.
Hand controls, steering knob, the whole setup that lets him drive himself anywhere he wants to go.
I get in, put my hand on his knee and he drives us home.
The routine still gets to me every time. Months ago, he was lying in a hospital bed. Now he’s merging onto the highway with one hand, and reaching for mine with the other.
On the drive he tells me about the week.
A cold case he’s working, a hit-and-run from 2019, evidence that the original investigator missed.
Mickey’s been pulling files and cross-referencing, finding what tired eyes skipped.
His sergeant told him he’s cleared more cold cases in three months than the previous desk officer cleared in a year.
The man who shot him is still in county.
Attempted murder of a law enforcement officer, hate crime enhancement.
No bail. The trial is still months away and there’s talk of it being delayed even more.
Mickey talks about it the way he talks about traffic reports.
Flat, factual, already filed. I don’t ask questions. When he’s ready to say more, he will.
Home is still the loft. George and Frankie on the shelf, together, right where they belong. Sheila’s leftovers in the fridge because Sheila feeds people whether they ask or not and asking is not part of her process.
We eat at the counter, side by side. We fall asleep with his arm around me and my face against his chest.
Saturday is ours. We sleep late, eat Sheila’s biscuits on the deck, watch the sunrise over the water.
Mickey is steadily improving. Steve has him at twelve steps on the parallel bars.
The left leg carries real weight. The right is behind but closing the gap.
Steve says if the trajectory holds, he might be using a walker by spring.
Mickey has stopped needing the promise, though. The trajectory is enough.
Dante’s 30A real estate business is growing.
Three listings active, two sales closed, a fourth pending.
He’s in the Panhandle every other week now.
He found a cheap two-bedroom apartment inland, ten minutes from the coast — no view, no charm, just a place to sleep between showings.
Last month he told me over the phone, “I think I’m becoming a Panhandle person,” and I said “welcome to the cult” and he said “it’s not a cult, it’s a lifestyle adjustment” and I said “that’s exactly what cult members say. ”
Saturday night, we sit outside and watch the stars come out. We go to bed early and I’m asleep before the light is fully gone.
Mickey wakes me up before sunrise the next morning.
“Hey,” he says. His hand on my shoulder. “Get up. I want to show you something.”
“What time is it?”
“Five-thirty.”
“What? No, Mickey. It’s five-thirty on a Sunday. I’m not moving this early.”
“Put on shorts and a T-shirt. It’ll be quick. Come as you are.”
I roll out of bed in Mickey’s T-shirt and slide my feet into flip-flops I keep by the bed.
We take the elevator down. The bar is dark and quiet. The chairs are up on the tables and the neon lights are off. The only light is coming from the back, through the glass doors that lead to the outdoor deck. Mickey wheels toward the glass doors and I follow him.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“It’s out here,” he says. “Come on. Hurry, or you’ll miss it.”
I push through the glass doors onto the deck. The sky is beginning to shift from dark to the shimmering morning pink. There’s no one on the beach. Only the water and the seagulls calling. I take three steps onto the deck and stop.
The railing is wrapped in white fabric. Soft, sheer panels tied at each post, the kind I use at beach ceremonies, the fabric that catches the breeze and moves.
Between the posts, strung along the railing at waist height, a line of small signs.
White card stock in simple frames, each one hand-lettered in handwriting I recognize.
Mickey’s handwriting.
The blocky, slightly uneven letters of someone who writes incident reports, not love letters. A cop’s handwriting.
The first sign says:
THE FIRST TIME I SAW YOU, YOU WERE BLEEDING ON THE GROUND. YOU WERE THE MOST GORGEOUS MAN I’D EVER SEEN.
The second:
YOU brOUGHT ME PIZZA WHEN I WAS AT MY DARKEST POINT.
The third:
YOU SAT ON A TILE FLOOR AND HELD MY FEET WHEN I COULDN’T FEEL THEM.
The fourth:
YOU DROVE FOUR HOURS EVERY DAY TO LIGHT UP MY LIFE.
The fifth:
YOU SHOWED ME THAT THE brAVEST THING I CAN DO IS STAND BESIDE YOU.
The last sign is at the far end of the railing:
I LOVE YOU, BENJI. WILL YOU MARRY ME?
My hands are over my mouth. The breeze moves the white fabric and the signs sway. The whole deck is a venue that someone built for me.
I turn around. Mickey is at the door. Oh my God, he’s not in the chair.
He’s standing.
Both hands on the doorframe. His arms locked, holding his weight. His legs underneath him, shaking. Everything about his body is working to hold him upright except his eyes, which are steady and blue and locked on mine.
“Mickey,” I whisper.
“I can’t hold this long,” he says, his voice strained. “I need you to hurry and come here.”
I rush over, and stop in front of him.
“Reach in my shirt pocket,” he says.
I reach up and slip my fingers into his front pocket. There’s a small box. I pull it out and open it. Inside is a simple silver band, catching the first light of the dawn.
“I wanted to be standing when I asked,” he says.
“You’re standing, Mickey.” My voice breaks. “You’re standing up.”
“Benji Bennett,” he says. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes!” I say, nodding. “Yes.”
He could’ve asked me from the chair and my answer would’ve been the same. But he’s shaking all over and holding on to a doorframe because he wanted to be on his feet when he said my name. I am done.
I’m completely gone.
“Put it on,” he says. “I can’t turn loose of the doorframe to do it myself.”
I slide it onto my finger. The silver band matches the chain at my throat. “It’s perfect,” I tell him.
His arms give out. He drops back into the wheelchair positioned behind him. He lands heavily in the seat, and his hands grip the armrests. His breathing is ragged and his face is flushed from the effort, but he’s smiling. The widest, most unguarded smile I have ever seen on Mickey Weaver’s face.
“How long did you practice that?” I ask.
“A week. Steve spotted me. We worked on the doorframe hold every session.”
“You trained for a marriage proposal?”
“I trained to stand up in front of you before I asked. Steve said it was the best motivation he’s ever worked with.”
I climb into his lap. My knees on either side of his hips, my arms around his neck, my face against his. I kiss him and the kiss tastes like the Gulf air and the salt on our faces because we’re both crying.
We stay like that. His arms around my waist, mine around his neck, my forehead against his. The breeze moves the white fabric behind us.
“I want you to know something,” he says.
“Tell me.”
“The night you showed up at the hospital with pizza. I was in the worst place I’ve ever been.
I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t see a future.
And you walked in with a box of pepperoni pizza and talked to me like I was still a whole person.
Nobody else was doing that. Everyone else was being careful with me.
You just walked in and started talking.”
“You were a whole person, Mickey. The most handsome and bravest man I’d ever seen.”
“I didn’t feel like one. You made me feel like one. You never once looked at me like I was broken.”
“You never were.”
“I was. I just didn’t look like it through your eyes.
” He tightens his arms around me. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Not because I need you to take care of me. Because every day you’re in my life makes it better.
I was surviving before you. Even before the shooting.
Now I’m living and it’s because of you.”
I press my face into his neck and let myself fall apart. There’s nobody here but us and I don’t have to hold anything together.
“I want you to know something too,” I say.
“I’ve adored you since the first day. From the moment I walked into that hospital room.
If you’d turned out to be straight, I would’ve been the best gay best friend you ever had.
I would’ve planned your wedding and given a toast that made everyone cry.
Then I would’ve gone home and been sad about it in private.
But I would’ve stayed. That’s how crazy I was about you from day one. ”
He laughs. “I’m glad I’m not straight.”
“Me too. That would’ve been a real problem for us.
” I look down at my ring. “The night of the shooting, I was wearing my rings. All of them. When I got back to the condo that night they were covered in your blood. I couldn’t wash them.
I didn’t feel right washing your blood off my rings.
I sealed them in a container and I still have them. ”
His arms tighten around me and he buries his face into my hair.
“I haven’t worn rings since that night. And now you just put one on my finger.” I hold up my hand. The silver band catches the light. “This is the only ring I need. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Benji. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know it every single day.”
We sit there until the crying stops and the breathing evens out.
“The signs,” I say against his mouth. “They’re beautiful. It’s your handwriting.”
“Stormy hung them for me. He was out here at four. He tied every panel, hung every frame, then went inside so we could have this time alone.”
“How did he know how to do this? The fabric on the railing? That’s ceremony draping.”
“Stormy watched YouTube videos.”