Depression visits now and again, mixing with a sense of isolation and loneness that won’t be shut out.
There’s no sign of Spider. I can’t figure out if that makes me feel better or worse.
Cap comes in around noon, shortly before my break. He limps in from outside, walking with a cane and clapping a couple of White Springs members on their backs as they head toward the stairs. Cap nods to me, pulling out a chair at a table near the door to the barroom.
“Angel.” He loses hold of the chair and it clatters to the floor.
“Let me get that for you.” It’s difficult to conceal my joy at seeing him, or the upsurge of affection for the nickname that he, it seems, has now made official. I set down drinks for customers and weave quickly through the tables, righting the chair and gently taking his cane from him while he eases himself onto the seat.
“Thanks,” he says when I hand him back the long wooden cane.
It’s been over a week since he was shot, but I assume it’s going to be a while before he won’t be feeling it.
“Anytime. How are you doing, Cap?” I nod to his leg.
“Aw, I’ll live. It hurts like a bitch, but what can you do? I’ve been through worse.”
My eyes widen, and I suddenly wonder how he lost his eye. He was former army. No, I’m not sure I want to know. “I’m sure you have. I’m just glad you’re with us. What can I get for you?”
He orders a beer, and when I return with his mug, he’s watching me with a closeness that makes me self-conscious. “How you doin’?” he asks, leaning toward me when I put the mug down.
He’s turned his head a little, fixing me with his good eye, the other covered with his familiar black patch. His eye flicks to the spider’s-web-shaped cuts on my chest, and I swear I see his throat work under his thick grey beard, but he doesn’t linger on it, instead focusing on my face. I can’t help feeling an immeasurable gratitude for his not making a big deal of it, unlike some of the others.
His expression gives away nothing of what he thinks, and yet there seems to be so much said in that gaze. The concern in his eyes is unmistakable.
Longing tugs hard at me. Longing for friendships and connections with others that it feels as if I haven’t had in months.
“I’m good, Cap. Thanks for asking.” I turn to make my way to the bar to collect more orders before I’m forced to say more.
“Have you had a break?”
“Not yet.”
“Good.” He nods to the chair across from him. “Have a seat.”
Searching for an excuse, I open my mouth, then close it.
There’s something about Cap that makes it easy to talk to him, to open up, and doing so feels as if I’d be opening a vein that, once open, will never stop.
“Indulge an old man, will you?” He nods to the seat again.
It’s not an order, but I can hear the faintest tinge of expectation in it, complacency that, somehow, coming from him, doesn’t annoy me.
I can’t help smiling in spite of myself. He’s like one of those sweet old grandpas you can’t argue with. It’s amusing to think of him that way when he’s wearing a cut and his big arms are covered in tattoos. There’s an anchor on his shoulder, a red and black one that I never noticed before. The look of it makes me think even more of a pirate than before.
Calling over to Tequila to let her know I’m on a break, I take the seat across from him. I cross my arms over the table with a grin. “All right, you got me.”
Monica comes over to serve us—or rather to serve Cap. When she sees me, she clicks her teeth and rolls her dark eyes, as if she’d rather walk on hot coals.
“Hi, Cap. What’s your pleasure?” She doesn’t look at me.
He orders plate of steak and potatoes and glances at me. “You want one? My treat.”
Steak sounds wonderful, but the idea of taking anything from him feels wrong for some reason. “Oh, no, you don’t have to—”
“Another for her,” he tells Monica. “Get her a Coke too.”
Monica arches a dark, manicured brow, her eyes dancing with a mocking light. My insides squirm, wondering what assumptions she’s making.