"When the Waffle House closes it’s time to get the fuck out of town," he mumbled to the table as I sank into the booth across from him.

"Oh yeah?" I said as I shrugged off my slicker and shoved the dripping thing into the corner of the bench.

I nodded to the waitress as she silently put a mug down in front of me and filled it. "When's the last time you heard of a Waffle House closing?"

"There was that one that blew over during Florence," Johnny said.

"That wasn't here," I shook my head, then took a careful sip of the steaming coffee. Burnt. "What about here? This Waffle House ever close?"

He shrugged with his shoulders and his eyebrows, slumping to the right as his body came to rest.

I glanced at the rain keening against the window, at his rumpled plaid shirt and three-day scruff.

"Where you been, Johnny?" I asked him. "Mom's been looking for you."

"I have to get out of town," he said, looking me in the eye for the first time. "Storm's coming."

"Johnny, this isn't a real storm. You've been through a million of these."

Our routine was the same: I'd pay his tab on the counter on the way in, tipping heavily to seek forgiveness for whatever had happened before I arrived. Sometimes I found him asleep with his head on the table, his right hand over his face, fingers trembling so slightly you’d figure he was dreaming. Once he threw up under the table. Usually he was at least conscious when I showed up, in my sweatpants or whatever I threw on when the phone rang, when my mother requested my services as bounty hunter.

I could guess how it had gone. Johnny had feared for a while that Florida would crack off into the sea during a freak super-hurricane. He joked about it, but it was the kind of joke that tried so hard that it scratched at the thicker layer beneath it every time.

This time it was a tropical storm, not even headed straight for us, but he felt compelled to flee. But he didn't get far without getting thirsty, and you can't get anywhere when you're thirsty, so he stopped at Bill's Tavern just for one drink before the storm came.

He had done this before. Once we lost him for four days. He had been at Bill’s for most of two of them.

The Waffle House was across the parking lot from Bill's.

Johnny grunted as he lifted his hips off the bench and shoved his hands deep into the front pockets of his faded jeans, searching for something. He finally found it: an airplane bottle of cheap whiskey. He cracked it open and poured it in his tepid coffee. I didn't stop him. None of the waitresses even glanced his way. They knew Johnny. They knew me.

Years ago we had sat in this same booth at this same gray-early hour, Johnny in his misery and me in my wilted prom dress, gold lamé with ruffled cap sleeves. He called me a slut because of the deep V of skin the dress highlighted, and I called him a drunk because he was one, and that was as close to close as we were going to get.

But I always dragged myself out of bed when mom asked me to try to find him, and I usually knew where to look. If I drove to this parking lot, I had a fifty-fifty chance of picking the right venue on the first try.

"You want something, Maddie?" The waitress sauntered back over, her hand resting on the notepad wedged into her apron pocket.

"No thanks, I'm not staying," I said. I always ended up staying, except for the time he threw up under the table. I left him there that time.

She nodded and continued on her rounds.

"Johnny, you gonna come home?"

A couple of years ago, when an actual hurricane passed over the three of us, I took refuge at my mother’s house, in my old bedroom. I nursed half a bottle of Bacardi and capped it off with a Xanax, which knocked me into sleep so deeply I did not hear the wind as it wore down tree limbs that snapped power lines. In the morning when a neighbor unscrewed the plywood from the windows I stared at the bottle, sitting on the tile floor among the things I found valuable enough to try to save.

Instead of answering, he asked me, "What are you running from, Maddie?" One of his eyes was trained on me, the other half shut.

"I ain't running, Johnny," I shook my head. "I'm just here to keep tabs on you."

"Ahhh, you're not running from, you're running to."

"I don't know if I would say that." Mom was worried his memory was starting to go, and I was worried about her creaking, unreliable joints, and I didn't think either of them was worried about me and that was just fine.

I listened to the flat top sizzle for a moment beneath the steady pinging of the rain on the glass.

"Well, you came to get me, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

"People don't do that for just about anybody," he said, lowering his voice as he sipped his whiskey coffee. It was like the airplane bottle had snapped him back to something close to his daytime self.

"It’s just what needs to be done," I shrugged. “You know she worries.”

"Thing is, Maddie," he started, the slurring coming and going now, "You and I, we aren't that different."

"You think that's why I come get you when you wander off? Because I like you?"

"No, no," He shook his head back and forth, back and forth, furrowing his brow and pursing his lips. "I know you're here because of your mother. But you and I, we're boomerangs."

He waited for me to ask him what he meant. "We both end up in the place we started," he proclaimed softly. "The place we didn't necessarily want to be."

"So your place is the bar over there?" I glanced over my shoulder, making sure it was still there.

"And your place is this town?"

"I’m here because mom needs me."

"Does she, though?" I blinked hard at him. "Ever since I met your mother she's been waiting for you to go do something on your own."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I left. I left! And when I came back I didn't end up on her doorstep with my bags like some hobo," I hissed, poking my index finger into the laminate.

"I think you both had higher hopes for the in-between times," he said.

I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together, trying to rub away the stickiness I had picked up from the table. The waitress came by with a fresh pot of coffee, and we both nodded when she held it up before us.

"Sondra, when's the last time this place closed?" I asked her.

"Matthew," she chirped, then carried the coffee away, a trail of steam following her.

2016. Category 5. It took out part of the road on the beach, cracked it down the middle and sent it right into the sea.

"Pretty sure the place isn't gonna float away under this rain cloud," I said. "You wanna get outta here soon? I'll drive you home."

"In a minute," he grumbled as if I was rushing him. This was how it usually went. A minute usually meant a half hour. At least.

I thought about ordering food, thought against it. Instead I grabbed my damp jacket from the corner of the booth and rooted around in the pockets, sure I had what I really wanted. My fingers finally hit something smooth.

I cracked the plastic around an airplane bottle of cheap whiskey and poured it into my coffee.

This article appears in Mar 28 – Apr 4, 2019.