Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

“Hon, your food’s gettin’ cold,” says Emmalea at my side. “You off in daydream land or what?”

I notice I’ve got the attention of the table. “Nah,” I quickly say with a chuckle. “Just stuff on my mind.”

“Stuff on your mind …?”

“Yep, it’s what I said.” I offer a blank smile.

Emmalea smirks. “Well, that stuff in your mind’s gettin’ in the way of the stuff on your plate. Anything you wanna share?”

I glance at the others. Everyone is annoyingly invested in this little exchange over here. Even Turtle, who has stopped mid-bite to pay attention.

I shrug and grab the first thing that comes to mind. “My little sister’s birthday is in a couple days.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. Didn’t know you had one. Is she just like you? How old is she turning?”

“Eleven—and she’s nothin’ like me, and I want to keep it that way,” I add, causing everyone to laugh.

Emmalea nods. “Well, I’m sure you can work out somethin’ with Gary, get you an afternoon off to enjoy her special day with her. A big brother’s gotta be there for his little sister, right?”

I nod. “Damn right.”

“Good thing. Now eat every last bit of that plate up before I turn any more into your mama,” she orders me. I let out a chuckle, then obey. And for a nice little while, things feel normal again.

That feeling’s wiped clean away after dinner.

Rust and a couple others go to bed early, tuckered out, while Turtle serenades Emmalea at the couch. I find myself doing some laundry in the mudroom by myself.

Yes, it’s deliberate.

No, I don’t need to do any dang laundry.

I’m here because I can see Harrison’s cabin straight out of the screen door and the window. There’s no light coming from the back side of the house, as far as I can tell. So from the looks of it, he’s inside tonight, and not “chasing some deadline” like he told the others.

It’s obvious he’s avoiding everyone.

More specifically: me.

Then again, I did sort of bolt from the truck the moment we pulled in. What was I supposed to say? What was I supposed to do? I still needed to process what the hell happened.

I needed to relive the moment a few times in my head.

Just to be sure of something.

Yet here I am, in the stupid mudroom, doing stupid laundry, and being absolutely sure of absolutely nothing.

Except that I can’t let this go.

I abandon my laundry and push my way out the screen door. The grass and gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I cross from the bunkhouse to Harrison’s. The floorboards thump like my heart as I ascend his porch, then stand before his door, knuckles ready.

I stop, my knuckles hovering at the wood, ready.

But am I really ready?

Do I really want to do this?

Once that can’s open and all the worms spill out, there’s no shutting it back up.

Wait. Who am I kidding? The can was spilled all over the place thanks to the man on the other side of this door. We’re already at the point of no return.

I knock.

No answer.

“Hey,” I say to the door. “Listen, I learned from last time. I’m not bargin’ my ass in. But I know you’re in there.”

Still no answer.

“I hear your heavy footsteps.” I don’t actually hear anything; it’s just a tactic. “C’mon. Answer the door.”

Nothing.

I lean back against the porch banister. “Alright, then. You can ignore me all night, but I’m gonna stay right here until you open that door. You and I need to talk.”

The door swings open. The big and broad-shouldered shape of Harrison eclipses the lamplight inside. He wears just a plain white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, barefoot. The hard stare he gives me is brooding and intense. He says nothing. He doesn’t even seem to breathe as he stares me down.

I push off the banister. “That’s a start. Now are you gonna let me in like a decent, hospitable person?”

He says nothing at first. Then, finally: “We’ve got nothing to talk about.”

I give him a look. “You sure ‘bout that?”

“Dead sure. Go to sleep, Hoyt.”

The moment he turns, I step forward. “We need to talk about what happened today.”

He turns to stone, then unleashes the fierceness of his eyes on me once again. Goddamn, that stare …

Suddenly I consider chickening out. I mean, am I even ready to talk about the whole thing? I felt a dozen times more confident a few minutes ago—before actually standing here on his porch in front of him, staring him down, demanding his time.

His face is unreadable. I have no idea what he’s thinking.

But it must be something like what I’m thinking, right? He’s either afraid, confused, or just as unsure whether or not he really wants to talk about it at all.

“So?” I prompt him. “You gonna let me in or not?”

“Nothing happened,” he says, then turns his back on me one last time.