He places his dusty hand on my shoulder and passes me a Budweiser. The label sweats and glistens with ice from the cooler.
“I don’t really like beer.” My face goes red.
“Trust me, after that job. I think you’ll appreciate a cold beer today.”
I ask him for his keys and use the bottle opener to pop the top. I take a long pull off the brown, chilled bottle. Drips of condensation falling on my best attempt at a beard.
The beer hits my throat. It’s so cold. I recoil a bit, letting the sip rest in my mouth. I catch him watching me out of the side of my eye and I swallow. Another. One more gulp.
The flavor is bitter. It sends the hair on my arms to the sky. I don’t like it, but it feels earned. I put the bottle in the cup holder. I had drunk nearly half.
“You really did great today.” He pats my thigh and dust puffs off.
I put my seat belt on and push my chest out with pride, or something like it. We pull onto the road and I go to take another sip of my Bud.
“Hold on a sec, don’t hoist through intersections,” he says.
“That’s where cops will see you.”
I grin.
I look as we pass, feeling like I’m part of the gang, not wanting to be the one who gets us busted. I take another sip after the coast is clear and take notice of the palm trees and strange orangish colored roofs. I'm still not used to Florida. It feels like another planet.
“What are those roof tiles?”
“Terracotta,” he says without taking his eyes off the road.
“Oh, they're pretty cool.” He nods.
The radio crackles as he looks for something to pass the time.
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night.
“Oh. Leave this,” I say quickly.
His eyebrow raises.
“Yeah, mom plays it all the time.”
His mouth turns upward into a smile.
The clouds out past the burnt orange roofs slowly blend turquoise and purples to grays, black. “Looks like a nasty storm rolling in off the gulf.”
“You’ll get used to the sudden summer showers, it's kinda our thing. Plus all the Florida man stories.” He smirks.
“Mhmm.” I fidget with my duct-taped tissue bandage.
“That seam you did was something, a tough pattern match. You really got an eye for this.”
“Measure twice, cut once.” I say dryly.
He laughs, “Yeah, yeah. That saying will save your ass. Trust me.”
I let my arm listlessly dangle out the window and catch some drag. It looks almost adult. I think of checking my wingspan on my childhood wall. Jordan’s arms were always so much longer. The spurt never came.
I sigh. I take a sip and look at the approaching storm in my new state, my last summer break. Time to grow up.
There’s some dirt specks stuck to the side of his brow. He adjusts his glasses, wipes the sweat off his forehead.
“Ya know, I should have listened to your ma. It was my fault and I wouldn't hear it. And it ruined everything. If I could have just checked my ego, I just… I'm sorry, I hope you know that.”
I’ve never heard him say those words. I always assumed he was, but to hear it.
“It’s hard, life, harder than you could imagine. But you’re gonna do better than I did, you got her mind. That's the key. You won’t need to do shit like this for long.”
My eyes are a glass of water. I avoid his. All I can muster is I know.
He looks so vulnerable, for the first time. I can’t fully, but I think I understand.
A raindrop hits my arm and I pull it in. A clap of thunder rumbles as I pick up the beer and hold it as an offering.
Anthony Verdi is a writer, event planner and founder of Splat Magazine. His writing has been featured in Maudlin house and Vlad Mag. When not writing he enjoys making t-shirts and hosting oddities markets. He lives in Gainesville Fl. He is currently working on his first novel.
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