Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

“Man, I don’t think a square kick in the nuts could wipe this smile off my face right now,” I announce for no reason.

Harrison just drives, one hand over the top of the wheel, and says nothing.

“Isn’t it good now and then?” I ask him. “To get off the farm? I mean, you gotta know everyone regards you as the boss. Not Gary. You’ve got free reign to do whatever it is you want.”

That makes him lift an eyebrow. “Say what?”

“The others. I mean, I didn’t mean they hold it against you or nothin’. They all love you. Not that you need to hear that,” I add. “Because you’re, uh, y’know … you.” Here I go again, running my mouth and letting every stupid thought just fall right out. “You can go whenever you want. You know you’ve got an amazing team you can trust to leave the farm to.”

“It’s not my farm,” says Harrison rather firmly. “It’s Gary’s.”

“Yeah, but what’ll Gary do when he passes on? No kids of his own. His wife doesn’t want the burden. He’ll leave it to someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who—”

“I don’t need you tellin’ me this,” he cuts me off. “I know what I mean to the Strongs. What’s got this bug up your butt anyway about what he’ll do with the farm? He isn’t dying tomorrow.”

“I’m just sayin’.” What was I saying? “You got a lot of … clout. Everyone likes and respects you.”

“Sure, okay.”

“Even me.”

Harrison brings a hand to his temple and rubs it, irritated.

I shrug. “I guess my whole point was just … it must be nice to get off the farm. I always wondered what you do when you’re not on it. I mean, other than this furniture thing.”

He wrinkles up his face. “Furniture thing …?”

“You go out now and then, don’t you?” I ask. “You go out with your friends? I know you hang with Tanner sometimes.”

“Uh, sure, of course. He’s my best friend. Why are you—?”

“No one seems to know the real you, that’s why. And it makes me wonder sometimes what you’re keepin’ to yourself. I might seem like the kind of guy whose friends know everything about him, but I can guarantee you right now that isn’t true.”

Harrison lets out a soft sigh. Then he indulges me. “That so?”

“My closest friends don’t really know the real me.”

“Well, maybe your ‘closest friends’ weren’t really all that close with you in the first place,” he suggests.

“Does Tanner really know the real you?”

He glances at me, frustration in his eyes, then faces forward without answering. With a quick twist of a knob, he turns up the volume of the radio, which I didn’t realize was playing at all. The twang of country music fills the truck, and I listen to lyrics about broken hearts, bikinis, and ‘summer fun in the sun’. I guess that’s supposed to signify that our conversation has ended.

I twist the volume quiet for a second. “My point was that you don’t gotta stay closed up all the time, y’know. It’s probably why you’re so dang stressed out and uptight.”

“Uptight—?”

“What you need is someone to confide in,” I go on. “Someone you don’t like very much.”

He frowns at me. “Are you talking about you?”

“That way, you know I won’t patronize you or say dumb shit you don’t wanna hear. We can, like, keep each other real. Be each other’s vent or shoulder. I’m basically the perfect friend.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t need a—”

“Just think about it,” I tell him, then twist the volume back up to full, drowning out whatever he’s trying to say with more whiny lyrics about broken hearts. After shooting me a look, he turns his eyes back to the road, and we remain quiet the rest of the way.

I didn’t realize the trip would just be five minutes long. Our destination, Goodwin Designs, is located at the Landry Ranch, just down the road from Gary Strong’s farm. I should’ve realized that, but somehow the excitement of getting to leave the farm for the first time in weeks made my brain stop working. After making our way up the long driveway, we go past the main house and pull up to a gravel area behind it, where an attached guesthouse sits.

Harrison kills the engine. “Help me unload the table,” he says, then hops out of the truck. I come around and assist in carrying it—still covered in a protective tarp—to the door.

Before we’re even halfway there, the door swings open, and out steps a handsome man with a creamy complexion, bright eyes, and styled, medium-length blond hair. He wears a buttoned shirt with the sleeves rolled up, cascading untucked over a pair of jeans. He’s barefoot when he steps out to greet us. “Harrison!” he calls out, shocked. “I thought it wasn’t gonna be ready ‘til Sunday!”