Page 37 of Levi

“Needing a ride the one night I couldn’t drive isn’t breaking the deal. It’s the deal working.”

“The deal’s suspended. Right alongside your judgment.”

He lets it go. He’s too hungover to fight and we both know it.

I drink the coffee I poured for him and take my keys off the counter. “Let’s go.”

On the drive neither of us says another word. Our rides are becoming the most stressful moments of my life. He’s got his head back against the seat and his eyes shut, riding the hangover out. I drive over the speed limit because I want him out of my car before he pukes in it. When we arrive, he gets out without a word, punches the code, goes inside.

I sit in the driveway fuming for about thirty seconds, then I hear it. Doors being flung open. The terrace sliding glass door banging the frame. The front door hitting the wall. He’s throwing open every door in the house, one by one, fast, the sound carrying out through the open entry. Now he’s upstairs doing the same thing.

I get out of the car. By the time I’m through the front door he’s done. Every door in the house stands open, terrace, front, interior. Gulf air is already pouring through the living room and the AC is grinding against eighty-five degrees of wet summer heat. He’s at the refrigerator with the door open.

He pulls out the paper bag with Tex’s ribs. He opens the carton, takes a rib, bites into it cold. His eyes close for a second when he bites in.

“These ribs are really good,” he says, mouth full. Then, like it’s nothing, “I was there last night.”

My head whips toward him. “Where?”

“Tex’s place. Big Tex’s.” He tips the bag toward me. “Where these ribs came from. You left them here, right?”

“How did you get there?”

“Took a bus.”

“This house is not on a bus route. There are no buses here.”

“There was last night,” he says. “A party bus for a party of one. Me.”

“A party bus. Fifteen miles, to a bar you’d never heard of.”

“Heard of it last night. Bag said Big Tex’s.” He works meat off the bone. “Figured ribs like that were worth the drive.”

“What did you do, Levi? Did you get arrested at Tex’s?”

“Nope.” He pulls meat off the bone. “Cop picked me up walking in the road after midnight.”

“What happened to the bus?”

He swallows, doesn’t look at me, then shrugs. “Guess I wasn’t worth coming back for.” He says it matter-of-fact, then he reaches for another rib.

And that’s what does it.

I finally lose my shit with him.

I’m across the kitchen in two seconds flat and my hands are at his collar. His back hits the refrigerator hard enough to rattle the frame. The rib’s on the floor. My face is six inches from his and I press my body up against him.

“Stay the fuck away from there!”

Full volume. It tears out of me, and it doesn’t stop, because English runs out before the anger does and the rest comes in Spanish.

¿Tú estás loco? Te montas en un autobús con un desconocido, te emborrachas, caminas solo por la carretera a las dos de la mañana, y yo ni sé quién carajo eres. ¿Y te apareces donde mi gente? ¿En su bar? ¿Por qué no me hablas? ¿Quién eres tú? ¡Me estás volviendo loco!

He doesn’t fight me. He doesn’t flinch, either, and that’s worse. He locks up under my hand, palms open at his sides, and lets me hold him against the refrigerator while I come apart in a language he can’t understand.

The stillness is what stops me. A man who comes up swinging I’d know what to do with. This I don’t.

A few more Spanish curse words rip out of me before I drop my hands, and let go of his collar. I step back, then another step, until the island is between us and my hands aren’t on him anymore. My pulse is going like I sprinted here, my chest heaving. I drag my fingers through my hair and breathe.