Daniel > Recent Status Updates

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Time to end the bastard!

He leans into me and puts his head on my shoulder. My arm goes around him.

"He didn't come tonight," Stormy says.

"No, he didn't. I expected him to."

"He will, though."

"Yeah. I think he will."

"We'll be ready," he says. "I'll be okay."

"You sure will, baby. I'll make sure of it."

I'd do anything in this world to protect him.

Oh...

I'm not afraid of my body anymore. For the first time in my life, my body is giving me joy. The dark rooms didn't win. The hands in the night didn't get the last word. Tex got the last word. I listen to his heartbeat and I know with absolute certainty that whatever comes next, I will fight for our life together. The way Tex fights. Standing up. Feet planted. Eyes open. With Tex right beside me.

"I've wanted to do this since the day I saw you on that ladder. You have no idea how hard it was to stand at the bottom of that ladder and act normal. I almost died, Stormy. That ladder almost killed me. I had to go inside and have a conversation with myself. 'Tex, you are a grown man. Get yourself together.' I did not get myself together. I am a permanently disassembled man and it's your fault."

The first pancake burns while he's staring at me.

"Shit! That pancake gave its life for this conversation and I want you to know that I respect its sacrifice. We'll have a moment of silence. Actually no, I've never had a moment of silence in my life. We'll have a moment of loud acknowledgment. That pancake was a hero. Hang on, I'll make you a good one. I'll eat the burned one. Extra syrup fixes anything."

"Stormy. I was willing to wait for you forever. I spent weeks standing six inches away from you, not touching you, not kissing you, just being near you, because having you in my life without ever touching you was better than not having you at all."
I can't speak. I open my mouth and nothing comes out. The words are too big and my throat is too tight. What I'm feeling is so enormous that language can't hold it.

He's not afraid anymore. Or maybe he is, but he's choosing not to let it win. Watching that choice happen in real time, watching him override a lifetime of survival instincts to stand next to me has been the most incredible and agonizing experience of my life. I want to touch him so badly my hands ache with it and I will not rush a single second of this. I told him we had all the time in the world. I meant it.

I grab a hot pink swimsuit and toss it in the cart. Stormy looks at it. Looks at me. "You live on the beach now," I say. "You need a swimsuit."
"It's hot pink."
"Hot pink is very in right now. I read that somewhere. Possibly on the back of a cereal box. You'll be visible from space. Nobody loses a man in a hot pink bathing suit. It's a safety feature. And it's the only one in your size. Tragic coincidence."

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.

Oh... gutted! This is making me feel stuff 😣🤬😭

Someone hurt this kid. Badly. Repeatedly.

I don't know who. I don't know what. But I know the shape of it, the shadow it casts, because I've seen it before. Not in my own life, but in people who've come through my bar over the years. People with that same careful way of moving, that same radar for hands and exits and locked doors. People who learned the hard way that trust is a luxury they can't afford.

The way he says it — I can clean — like he's offering the only thing he's got.
The one skill he thinks might be enough to justify taking up space in my building.
He's telling me, this is what I'm worth. Please let it be enough to let me stay in the middle of a damn hurricane.
This is the best thing he has to offer, and he needs me to accept it or he's got nothing.
Damn.

I honestly don't give a flyin' f**k who or what wrote this or created the beautiful cover boy. I'm havin' a blast and that's all that matters!

I'm in trouble. I know it already. The kind of trouble that's got nothing to do with hurricanes and everything to do with the quiet, scared, beautiful stranger in my passenger seat, holding a duffel bag like it's all he's got in the world. Well, that's about to change.

Nothing.
Not a smile, not a flicker.
He's watching the road and gripping that bag.

I keep going. That's what I do. I talk. I've been told I could talk the paint off a barn and then convince the barn it looks better that way. My dad was the same way. If this kid doesn't want to talk, that's alright. I've got enough words for both of us.

I see his eyes.

Holy shit.

They're blue-green. Not blue, not green, but that specific impossible color that the Gulf of Mexico turns right before a big storm rolls in, when the water goes dark and electric at the same time, when the light hits it sideways and you can't tell if it's beautiful or dangerous.

I can't look away.

"Peter," I say to Sheila, who is behind the bar drying glasses like the world isn't about to end. "They're sending a Category 4 Hurricane Peter to kill us. Not a Hurricane Razor. Not a Hurricane Blade. A Peter. I'm supposed to board up my windows and sandbag my doors for a storm named after my Uncle Pete, who once got his head stuck in a porch railing at a Fourth of July cookout."

My phone buzzes against the bar top like an angry wasp, and I already know it's bad. Nothing good ever comes through on a Wednesday afternoon in the middle of hurricane season when the sky outside looks like God's holding a grudge. I pick it up and read the alert twice. Then a third time, because sometimes you need to let bad news sink in properly before you start cussing at it.

"Are you just going to stand there and let the bad guys win?” Gibby was right.

“Hell no.”

“What are we gonna do about it?”

“Kick names and take ass,” he growled dangerously. “Wait, shit. I screwed that up. Let me—”

“Run,” Gibby said. “Up the front of Seth’s house. Get to the roof, and then you jump from building to building like a superhero.”

“Uh, I think you’re overestimating my ability to—”

“Do it!”

Love me some Jazz...

“Hey, Owen?” Jazz asked. “Do you know what the uvula is?”

Owen blinked. “The little dangly thing that hangs at the back of the throat?”

“Yes,” Jazz said sweetly. “If you don’t tell us why you’re here in the next five seconds, I’ll show you yours.”