Page 52 of Levi

“That’s not what I asked.”

“An hour, maybe. A little more. I’m not mad. I was worried.”

“Nobody’s ever done that,” he says. “Waited on me because they were worried.” He shrugs one shoulder. “I’m sorry I scared you. I mean that. But I’m not sorry I went.”

“I don’t want you sorry you went.” It comes out rough. “Walk the beach every night if you want. But make me one promise. You don’t swim in the dark. Not ever, not sober, not any way. And you check the flags before you go in during the day. Rip currents kill tourists on this stretch every year. Multiple people, every single year, and most of them thought they could swim fine.”

“Okay,” he says finally, nodding. “I promise. No swimming in the dark. I’ll check the flags.”

“Thank you. On Friday the housekeeping crew arrives at noon. You need to be out by then. You can go to my place if you want.”

“Alright. Friday. Noon. I’ll plan to be gone.”

There’s nothing else left to say. He moves past me up the steps, and his hand comes up and lands on my arm. Light. Barely a weight at all, fingers just above my elbow.

Days of dealing with him and we have never touched, not even a handshake, except when I put him against a refrigerator. His hand is warm and that’s the detail I’ll be carrying out of here.

“Hey,” he says. I make myself keep direct eye contact with him as if his hand on my skin isn’t what I’m thinking about. “I’ll be careful. I hear you. Thanks for standing watch for me.” Then the hand’s gone.

The warm print of it isn’t. Five fingers above my elbow, through one layer of linen, and my skin is feeling it.

I don’t answer. He heads inside and I cross the drive to the car and he lets me go.

Chapter 19: Levi

Days spent alone in a house this size and I’ve started talking to the appliances.

The icemaker drops a load every forty minutes like it’s punching a time clock. That’s forty minutes more purpose than I’ve got. By now, I even know the thread count on the bathroom towels, because there’s a little card beside them, like this is a fancy hotel. I wish it was. At least then, I could ring the front desk with a made-up excuse to send somebody up to talk to me for three minutes.

Thursday, I watched the Gulf run its one trick for about six hours. By Friday the white walls have started leaning in.

The cash situation isn’t helping my mood. The next dollar with my name on it lives on the far side of the Bash, behind a rope Freddie’s standing guard at.

When I hear Dante’s SUV in the drive a little before noon on Friday, I’m at the door like a dog that heard the leash come off the hook. I hate that I’m glad he’s back here.

He knocks once and lets himself in, already wearing the professional Friday version of himself. The clothes, the good shoes, the cologne turned up. Tomorrow a woman from Atlanta decides whether this house is worth the asking price, and Dante dresses for the day before the day. Maybe he’s practicing.

He fills a doorway like he holds title on every room behind it. Shoulders squared, chin level, already moving furniture with his eyes.

“Get your stuff,” he says. “I’m taking you to the apartment. Crew’s an hour out. By tomorrow morning this house has to look like no one ever set foot in it, which means everything you own and every crumb you’ve dropped is gone before they start.”

Days of conversation with an icemaker have left me a little wild around the eyes. I like his place, but the word apartment means a smaller box inside the box I’m already standing in. Better, sure. But still four walls and me, alone for hours.

“I’ll go,” I say. “One condition.”

He’s already heading toward the kitchen to start erasing me. He stops. “Condition? You already agreed to go.”

“I agreed to leave. The terms of leaving are a separate negotiation, and we’re having it now.” I lean on the island so he can see I’m in no hurry. “You of all people should respect a man reading the fine print.”

“There’s no fine print. Grab your bag. We don’t have time for this.”

“There’s always fine print. You taught me that. And that was before I started going stir crazy by myself in this house. My condition is you take me to the Roadhouse tonight and drop me off. For sunset and a couple of hours. I’ve been losing my mind in here and I’d like to stand in a room with people who aren’t me before I forget how it’s done.”

I watch the word Roadhouse land. He locks up the way he does, and I know exactly which kitchen he’s standing in right now, because I’m standing in it too. The last time the Roadhouse came out of my mouth, this man lost the only fight with himself I’ve ever seen him lose.

I said it anyway. I could’ve asked for any bar on this coast. I want to see what he does with the name. If I’m lucky, he might even shove me against the refrigerator again.

“No,” he says. “Not there. Anywhere else. There’s a place in Seaside, there’s—”