Stormy

Chapter 9 Tex #2

He comes down fifteen minutes later. I hear his footsteps running down the stairs, and when he skids into the kitchen, he looks terrified. His hair is messy, his eyes are wide, and he's got the t-shirt on, pulled down tight, covering everything.

"I'm so sorry," he says before I can speak. "I overslept. I never do that. It won't happen again. I'm sorry. Can't believe I did that."

"Stormy. Relax. You slept in. It's not a felony. Sit down. We're not punching a time clock here. The work will wait for us. It always does."

He sits on his stool but he's rigid, his spine straight, his hands flat on the counter like he's waiting for a verdict. I slide his plate across. Six strips of bacon. I've decided to add an extra strip every day until he tells me to stop. He doesn't look at it.

"I want to talk to you about something," I say.

He goes still. Not the normal still of someone waiting for a conversation.

A different still. The still of an animal that heard a twig snap.

Every muscle in his body locks. His eyes fix on a point on the counter somewhere between his plate and mine, and I can see him bracing.

Preparing. Armoring up for whatever's coming.

"I've been thinking about how much you've done around here," I say.

"And I want you to know that I could not have gotten through this rebuild without you.

I mean that. The organization, the inventory, the cookout, the cleanup.

You've worked harder than anyone I've ever had in this bar, and that includes Sheila, and if you ever tell her I said that, she will murder us both. "

He's not breathing. I can see it. His chest isn't moving.

"I'm sorry, I'll work harder," he blurts out. "I'll do better, I swear."

It comes out fast and desperate, the words tumbling over each other like they've been sitting in his throat waiting for this exact moment.

"I'm sorry I overslept. I'll set an alarm.

It won't happen again, I promise. I'll do whatever you need me to do.

I can do more. A lot more. I can clean the second floor, I can organize the storage room again, I can help with the electrical, I can learn whatever you need me to learn.

I'm a fast learner. I'll do better. I promise to do better. I promise."

"Stormy—"

"Please." His voice cracks on the word. Actually cracks, like a physical thing breaking.

His hands are gripping the edge of the counter and his knuckles are white and his eyes are too bright and he's looking at me with an expression that takes my chest apart piece by piece.

"Please just give me one more chance. I'll do better. I promise."

And then, so quiet I almost don't hear it. "I don't have anywhere to go."

Six words.

Six words that crush me. He's not saying them for sympathy.

He's not playing a card. He's telling me the truth, the raw, unvarnished, terrified truth, the same way he told me "I can clean" on that first morning.

This is everything he has. This is his entire hand, played faceup on the counter, and he's waiting for me to take it away from him.

My hand moves toward him before I think about it. Instinct. Reflex. The need to touch him, to comfort him, to close the distance between us and make him understand that he's not going anywhere. My hand automatically reaches across the counter toward his and I see it happening and I stop.

I stop one inch from his skin. I can feel the warmth of his hand without touching it.

I can see the tension in his fingers, the white knuckles, the tendons standing out under the skin.

I want to cover his hand with mine so badly it's a physical ache, but I don't. I set my hand on the counter next to his.

Right next to it. Close enough to touch, but not touching.

"Stormy. Listen to me. I'm not sending you away. I will never do that, okay? Never."

His breathing hitches.

"I was trying to say that I want to pay you.

I want to hire you. Officially. A real job with real pay, and I want you to stay on and help me get this place up and running again.

I've been trying to think of a way to sell you on the idea.

So, think of it like a cruise ship job. You'll get a room and all the food you can eat plus live entertainment courtesy of you know who. How does that sound?"

He stares at me. The tears that were building in his eyes spill over, one from each eye, tracking down his cheeks, and he doesn't wipe them away. I don't think he knows they're there.

I get up. Not because I want to leave this moment, but because he needs a minute and I know that.

I know him well enough now to know that being watched while he cries is worse than the crying itself.

I go to the stove and pour two fresh cups of coffee, taking my time, giving him the space to feel what he's feeling without an audience.

When I come back, he's wiped his face with the back of his hand and his eyes are red but the tears have stopped. I set his coffee in front of him and sit back down.

"I can't pay you much right now," I say.

"Not until the bar reopens and we start bringing in revenue again.

But I'll pay you what I can, and once we're back on our feet, we'll figure out a fair wage.

The bar slows down after the big bike rally in October, then we'll have until March to get everything ready to go big for next year.

With you helping me, there's no limit to what we can do.

We can build a bigger deck and maybe expand the space on the second floor for weddings and receptions.

You'll have a job here as long as you want one.

Oh, and don't forget you get a beachfront room with a view.

I read that on an Airbnb listing and thought I'd throw that in there to help you decide to take me up on my offer. "

He picks up the coffee. His hand is shaking badly enough that the liquid trembles in the mug.

"I've been watching you work," I say. "And I want you to hear this, because I mean every word.

You are one of the smartest people I've ever met.

The way you organized that gift shop was better than anything I've done in years of running this place.

The way you managed the cookout, the rationing, the way you can look at a problem and solve it before anyone else has even identified it.

I need someone like you, Stormy. Not just for the rebuild.

For the long run. This bar needs what you've got.

You've seen me work. I'm all heart and muscle, but the organizational part of my brain doesn't work the same way as yours.

I need you. Me and Sheila can barely keep things going. What do you say?"

He's looking at his coffee. His jaw is working, the way it does when he's turning over something so big, he doesn't know if he can speak the words.

"You don't have to answer right now," I say. "Think about it. Take your time. I understand it's a big decision. I don't want to pressure you."

"I don't need to think about it." He looks up. His eyes are still red, his face is still wet and his voice is still rough, but when he speaks, it's the steadiest I've ever heard him sound. "I want to stay."

"You do?"

"Yes, I want to. Thank you."

"Alright, then. Glad that's settled." I pick up my coffee, take a drink and act like my own eyes aren't stinging.

"Eat your eggs. They're getting cold and I refuse to let you start your first official day on an empty stomach.

One more thing, speaking of stomachs. I don't remember ever seeing you, not one single time, go into the kitchen and get yourself something to eat. Want to tell me why?"

He shakes his head. "I eat when you eat."

"You're also allowed to eat when I'm not eating. If you're hungry, go fix yourself something. Even in the middle of the night. You can fix something for me too, because I never turn down food. I'm always hungry. Got it? There's no reason for anyone to go hungry when we're overstocked with food."

He nods, picks up his fork and eats. He doesn't say anything for a while, and I let the silence be what it is, which is two people sitting in a kitchen having just crossed a line they can't uncross.

He has a place now. Not a borrowed room, not a favor, not a temporary arrangement that could be revoked at any moment.

A place. A job. A reason to stay that isn't fear.

We work through the day. It's a good day.

Productive. Steady. We finish pulling the last of the damaged drywall and start prepping the walls for new material.

The power came back on yesterday and the air conditioning is running.

Thank fuck. The building feels alive again in a way it hasn't since before the storm.

Stormy works with a focus I haven't seen before, which is saying a lot because this kid works harder than anyone I've ever met. But today it's different. Today he's not working to earn his place. He's working because it is his place.

In the afternoon, I tell him to knock off early.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Because I just hired you, and you own approximately three pieces of clothing, two of which say Big Tex's Roadhouse on them.

While I appreciate the free advertising, I can't have my employee walking around in the same sweatpants for the rest of his life.

We're going to the big Walmart on a shopping spree. "

"You don't have to do that."

"I know I don't have to. I want to. Consider it payment for the work you've already done.

" I pull my wallet out, take some cash and hold it out to him.

"This is yours. Buy whatever you need. Shorts, t-shirts, shoes, caps, whatever.

It's hot as hell and you've been wearing the same pair of black sweatpants for almost two weeks and I'm frankly amazed you haven't melted. "

He looks at the cash in my hand and doesn't take it.

"Stormy. Take the money."

"I'll pay you back."