Chapter 26 Tex
Stormy won't stop touching me.
That's not a complaint. I mean it as the most incredible development in the history of human contact.
The kid who flinched when Sheila put a hand on his shoulder, who pulled away on a ladder when I tried to keep him from falling, who always kept a careful distance between himself and another human being, will not stop putting his hands on me.
The best thing about it is that he doesn't even realize he's doing it.
It starts in the morning while he's at the counter eating eggs.
I walk past him to the coffee maker, and his hand reaches out and catches the hem of my shirt.
Just holds it gently. Two fingers on the fabric, light as breath, while he takes another bite of eggs with his other hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I pour my coffee and his fingers stay hooked in my shirt until I move back to the counter. When I sit down next to him, his hand moves to my thigh, resting there, warm through the denim.
It continues all day, and I couldn't be happier about it.
I'm behind the bar restocking the cooler and he walks past, trailing his fingers across my shoulders, a three-second touch that sends heat down my spine.
I'm carrying a stack of folding chairs across the parking lot and he falls into step beside me, his hand finding the small of my back, steadying me like I'm the one who needs steadying, which I don't. But the touch of his palm on the strip of skin above my waistband where my shirt has ridden up makes me almost drop the chairs anyway.
He brushes my hair back from my forehead when it falls in my eyes.
He rubs the knot between my shoulder blades when I've been hunched over paperwork.
He hooks his chin over my shoulder when I'm cooking, pressing his chest against my back.
I can feel the heat of him through both our shirts and the smell of him, clean and warm with that hint of salt from the beach air.
It all fills my head until I can't remember what I'm supposed to be doing.
He's learning touch the way a person learns a new language late in life.
Full, total immersion. Every surface, every texture, every point of contact.
He's discovering that hands can do things other than hurt, that skin against skin can mean safety instead of danger, that reaching for someone and having them reach back is not a trap.
It's a conversation. And he's having that conversation with his entire body, all day, in every room with me.
I watch him do it and my heart aches in the best possible way. The reversal of it. The distance this kid has traveled, not in miles but in the space inside himself, from the scared kid who could barely speak to the man who hooks his fingers in my shirt while he eats breakfast.
That distance is everything.
It's his whole story.
Around two in the afternoon, I'm on the back deck checking the railing that's still loose from the hurricane when Stormy comes outside.
He's in the cutoff shorts and the Big Tex's Roadhouse t-shirt and flip-flops.
The Florida sun has turned his skin a shade of gold that makes his eyes look almost green.
He's filled out in the weeks since he arrived. Still lean, still sharp at the edges, but the ribs don't show anymore, and his arms have definition now, muscle built from hauling tables and sheetrock.
He leans against the railing next to me and looks out at the water. The wind pushes his hair across his forehead and the light catches the pale strands. I stare at him because looking at him is the best thing I do all day.
"You're staring," he says, grinning at me.
"I'm supervising."
"Supervising what? I'm standing here, doing nothing."
"Exactly. You're standing there looking all sexy like that and someone has to supervise it. It's a damn safety issue, Stormy. I should get a lifeguard whistle. Just stand here on the deck with a whistle. 'Attention: Super hot guy leaning on railing. All personnel be advised. This is not a drill.'"
He bumps his shoulder against my arm. The smile flickers.
The one I live for. He reaches up and pushes my hair back from my forehead.
His fingers linger at my temple, tracing down to my jaw, running through my beard.
I close my eyes and go still the way I've learned to go still for him, not frozen, just present, letting him explore my body at his own pace.
"I like your face," he says with a solemn expression.
"Glad to hear it. I like your face too."
"No, I mean I like touching your face. I like that I can just do that now. Reach up and touch you whenever I want. It feels like a special gift. Do you mind?"
"No, I certainly don't mind. I love it. And I'm very glad you feel that way because you can do that whenever you want for the rest of your life. I promise to never get tired of it. My body is yours to touch anytime. I love it. As far as I'm concerned, there can never be too much touching."
His hand stays on my jaw while his thumb traces my cheekbone. His eyes are following his own fingers, watching the way they move through my beard, and the concentration on his face is the same focus he brings to everything.
I turn my head and kiss his palm.
Every time I think it's not possible to love him more, I realize I do.
Later, Sheila finds me in the kitchen doing inventory. She's got her reading glasses on and the look on her face that says she has opinions and is about to share them.
"You should have named him Shadow," she says.
"What? Why?"
"Shadow. Instead of Stormy. That boy follows you around like a shadow. If you go left, he goes left. If you go upstairs, he goes upstairs. If you stand still for more than thirty seconds, he materializes beside you like a ghost."
"He's not that bad."
"He followed you to the bathroom this morning, and stood outside the door."
"Maybe he was getting a towel."
"There are no towels on that floor and we both know it.
I'm not complaining. That boy looks at you like you can walk on water.
I wish you could see the look in his eyes when he's watching you from across the room.
It's like you're the only solid thing in his whole world. The only thing that's real."
I lean against the counter and look at this woman who has been my second mother for fifteen years. She held me together when my dad died, and accepted Stormy into her kitchen without a single question.
"I love him, Sheila."
"Baby." She takes off her reading glasses and folds them. "I have known that since the first day I laid eyes on him. Maybe before the first day. Maybe from the phone call when you told me about him and your voice did that special thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing your daddy's voice used to do when he talked about your mama.
Like the whole world got softer. Your daddy used to talk about your mama and the whole room would go quiet because the man sounded like a poem and didn't even know it.
Big, loud man just like you. Couldn't whisper to save his life.
But he'd say her name and his voice would drop half an octave and every person in this bar would suddenly tear up.
You do the same thing with Stormy. You don't even hear yourself do it. But I hear it every time."
I don't have a response to that. Instead, I pretend to study the inventory sheet and blink a few times.
"Mama Sheila, I need to tell you something. And I need you to listen and not react the way you're going to want to react. This is important."
She puts the glasses back on. The playfulness drops. Sheila in operational mode is a different person entirely.
"Stormy is in trouble. Someone from his past is going to come looking for him.
A bad man. I can't tell you everything but I can tell you that he hurt Stormy and for a long time, and he considers Stormy his property.
He's dangerous and he's patient. He may show up here.
No, I take that back. He will show up here. "
Sheila's lips tighten as if she's ready to go to war.
"If you see anyone at this bar who doesn't fit.
Someone who isn't a regular, isn't a biker, isn't a tourist. Someone asking questions.
Someone who looks like they're looking for a person instead of looking for a drink.
You immediately get Stormy out of sight first. Upstairs, back room, wherever.
Then you find me. Do not confirm that Stormy is here.
Do not confirm that you know anyone matching his description.
Do not engage with this person. You get Stormy out of sight and come find me.
Stormy doesn't have any family or friends coming for him.
If someone is asking questions about him, they're bad. "
"What does he look like?"
"Big, not as big as me though. Thick arms, wide shoulders. He'll look friendly. Normal. He'll smile and shake hands. He might say he's a deacon or a business owner or a concerned friend looking for someone who went missing. He'll be polite. That's how he operates."
Sheila's quiet, but her eyes are hard behind the reading glasses.
I've seen this look before. It's the look she gets when someone threatens someone she loves.
It's the look that preceded her chasing a man out of a bar with a cast iron skillet who pissed her off. I know the story because I was there.
"That boy is my family now too," she says. Her voice carries the weight of a woman who raised three kids, buried a husband, and has never once in her life backed down from anything. "Nobody is taking him out of this bar. Not while I'm breathing."
"Sheila—"
"I heard you. Get him out of sight, find you, don't engage, don't confirm. I understand the instructions. But I want you to hear me, Tex. If that man puts a hand on Stormy in my presence, the instructions change. You can't expect me to sit by quietly and watch it happen."
"Mama Sheila."