I smiled and nodded my head, knowing he had accepted it as being what it was. Cade was six years younger than me, but even though he was a 26 year old man, he wasn’t willing to stand up for himself or argue with another man. In many regards he was similar to a little boy, unsure of his position, and easily swayed with a harsh tone or the threat of opposition of any kind. Although I used knowing this about him to my advantage, I would never let another person take advantage of Cade; in our eight years of friendship I had come to love him no differently than my brother.

I stared out the opening between the concrete pillars of the parking garage. Although it hadn’t started raining yet, it looked like it could begin at any minute. As I gazed off into the distance, I continued.

“Enchiladas, huh? Sounds good, I’ll let you know what happens. I’m at the parking garage.”

“If she stinks…”

“See you in a few,” I said as I hung up.

I pushed the phone into the pocket on my sleeve and bent down even with the rearview mirror. A few days growth of beard with my hair grown out to one length – down to my chin – made me look like I was either homeless myself, or preparing to do a Harley-Davidson commercial. I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if she’d even be there by the time I got back.

As I began to roll to a stop at the intersection, I sighed nervously at the sight of her still lying on the bench. A quick check of traffic produced no one on the one-way street, so I released the brake, killed the engine, and rolled across the street and along the sidewalk. As my bike came to a stop behind the bench, I kicked kickstand down with my left foot.

“Tree’s not going to keep that hail from pounding that pretty Harley of yours to death. Why don’t you park in your garage?” she said flatly.

I glanced over my shoulder and down at the bench. She was lying on her back with her eyes closed.

“How’d you know it was a Harley?” I said under my breath as I stepped off the bike.

“Says it on the side of the gas tank,” she responded as she opened one eye slightly.

“But your eyes were closed,” I said with a laugh as I walked around the corner of the bench.

“They sure were. But you ride it past here every night about this time. After all these people rush out of here, you come home and park in the basement. Heard you ride past a few minutes ago. Guy in the Benz across the street said it’s going to hail pretty bad, probably ought to park that thing in the garage,” she said under her breath as she slowly rose into a seated position beside her pack.

“I’m going to in a minute,” I responded as I pointed toward the empty portion of the seat beside her.

She nodded her head as she scooted along the bench and closer to her pack. As she pulled her black beanie tightly onto her head, she narrowed her gaze and looked up into the sky.

“Looks bad,” she sighed.

“It’s why I stopped. I was wondering. Well, with the weather, I was thinking…well, really wondering…if, uhhm…”

As I stammered for words, I realized I was actually nervous. There wasn’t a situation in the last ten years that I could think of which made me feel apprehensive, but for some reason, asking this homeless girl if she wanted to get in out of the rain was making me feel uneasy. I quickly dismissed it to my recent divorce, and the anticipation of the girl with the beanie rejecting my offer, further proving there was something about me women didn’t like. As I mentally stumbled for a way to sugar coat my offer, she spoke.

“You were feeling sorry for me and wanting to know if I needed a ride somewhere more suitable for this fucking weather that’s coming, right?” she shrugged.

Her dirty blonde hair hung from underneath her beanie and down to past her shoulders. Sitting on the edge of the bench, I gazed over my shoulder and began to admire the facial features of what appeared to be more than just a slightly attractive homeless woman. As she dug through the pockets of her pack, I continued to stare. She was nothing short of beautiful.

Dirty, but beautiful.

I swallowed, pushed myself into the back of the bench, and exhaled.

“You like Mexican food?” I asked over my shoulder.

“Si,” she responded without looking up.

I brushed my hair over my ears and smiled, “You hungry?”

“I’m always hungry. You got a name?” she asked as she pulled a floss pick from her bag.

“Ethan,” I said as I extended my hand.

She gazed down at my hand, hesitated, and eventually shifted her gaze upward.

“Mine’s Rain.” she said, “Rain Bauer.”

I cocked my head to the side slightly as I pulled my arm back and rested my hand in my lap.

I narrowed my gaze, “Your name is Rain?”

She nodded her head once in confirmation and glanced down at the pick. As she stared blankly into her lap, she spoke.

“So have you got some tacos in that cool little jacket of yours, or you have something else in mind?”

I pressed my palms along the thighs of my jeans and glanced over my shoulder, “Well, to kind of back up a little bit, I’ve seen you down here for about a month. When I came home tonight, with the weather and all, I just...I uhhm…I wondered if you wanted to come up for dinner and let the storm pass. My roommate made enchiladas.”

She shifted her eyes up from the floss pick and gazed at me for a long moment.

“Take your glasses off,” she demanded.

I twisted my shoulders to the left and studied her. She sat quietly, still gazing into my eyes, and toying with the pick.

I wrinkled my nose slightly and raised my eyebrows, “Excuse me?”

“The glasses, take them off and I’ll give you an answer,” she said under her breath.

I removed my sunglasses, rested my elbow on the back of the bench, and began to twirl the sunglasses between my thumb and forefinger. She slid the end of the floss pick past her lips, held it with her teeth, and lifted her chin slightly. Her blue eyes had an odd inviting depth I had never seen. As I attempted to study her and determine what was so different about them, she sighed and shook her head.

“Green. I’ll be damned, would have figured you for blue. Yeah, sounds good, but I’ll warn ya. I can’t make many promises, but I can assure you of this,” she hesitated and raised one eyebrow.

“What’s that?” I asked as I stood.

“If you can’t already, once when we get inside, you’ll smell me,” she said as she pulled the floss pick from her mouth.

“I don’t smell anything,” I shrugged.

“You will,” she said as she reached for her canvas pack.

RAIN

Although I never had an opportunity to meet my biological father, I never had much of an opportunity to escape my stepfather. His repeated sexual abuse started at age eight, and never let up. When I was roughly twelve, I confided in my mother what he had been doing to me. Her shoulder shrug and explanation of his provisions to us as a family completely crushed what little faith I had in my mother’s capacity or even willingness to protect me from harm. At fifteen years of age I left and never looked back. Although I lived in the same city with the family of a high school friend, neither my mother nor the monster made an effort at all to ever contact me again.

After I graduated high school, I felt obligated to move out of my friend’s house, and did so promptly. I quickly found out the difficulty associated with being an adult, providing for myself, and being responsible. After six months or so of an honest attempt at what seemed impossible, I finally threw my hands in the air and became a statistic. For the first two years, I stayed in playhouses and treehouses in the back yards of the east side’s upper crust, and did what I had to do for money and food. As time passed, and the desire to distance myself from my parents lingered, I began to migrate south. Eventually, I was sleeping mostly in random unlocked cars, and slowly migrating south as I did so.