Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

He lets out a sigh, then stares thoughtfully at his can. “Yeah, a bit. Big feelings. But it was confusing and always came out wrong. I don’t really know if I had true feelings for Toby, or if I was just … desperate for someone to pay attention to me, the way that only he could.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t excuse anything. But—”

“No judgment here,” I assure him. “You’re talking to someone who thought a dude he hadn’t seen in ten years was going to just magically fall for him over the course of a high school reunion.” I try to laugh, but it comes out sad and wimpy. “So … it’s okay if you have weird feelings about it. I understand. Your friend shouldn’t have pushed your buttons like that.”

“I don’t know. Maybe my buttons need to be pushed.” He is about to go for another sip, then sighs and sets his can aside. “So what does that make us? A pair of sad rejects?”

“Speak for yourself,” I tease him, nudging him in the ribs.

He looks at me. “I don’t feel like a reject when I’m with you. I feel like you’re the only person who’s ever given me your full … everything. I feel like you really see me. All the parts of me. Even the sides I try to sweep away from everyone’s eyes like dust under a rug.” He peers at my lips, as if considering them. “I’ve never felt this way before, Harrison.”

I gaze into his eyes, feeling so grateful to have him by my side. Still, I can’t help but feel like he’s got demons trapped in him that I can’t do a damned thing about.

Chasing an instinct, I lean toward him.

He puts a hand on my chest. “Nah, we can’t.”

I lift my eyebrows. “What?”

“Kiss. Or anything.”

I wrinkle my face, then settle back into place. “Wasn’t gonna.”

“Yeah, you were.” Hoyt snorts. “I can see that hungry-ass look in your eyes. You were wondering whether you should go in for a kiss. You can’t. My sister’s bedroom window has a perfect view of us. No idea if they’re too busy with each other, but just one peep out that glass, and they’re gonna have a show.”

I glance back at the wide pair of windows—one of them to the living room, the other to Gemma’s room, I’m guessing. I shoot him a look. “Who do you think I am? A man who can’t contain himself?”

“Maybe.” Hoyt grabs his soda and kicks it back.

My eyes wander behind him to the old rocking chair.

I do a double take.

Hoyt follows my line of sight. “Oh, that. Hey, don’t go gettin’ all critical on it, Mr. Perfectionist,” he teases me. “It was my dad’s.”

I get to my feet and walk up to it, studying it—the rigid shape of its back, worn and asymmetrical, and the arms, slightly out of alignment, imperfect, raw. No artful details etched up the legs or along the back. No extra sanding along the edges. Unpolished.

Hoyt has turned around, watching me. “I must’ve been seven or eight when my dad got that rocking chair. It’s old, I know, and it sure isn’t up to your standard of furniture … but I love it.”

“No, it … it sure isn’t up to my standard,” I agree, running my hand across the rough arm, remembering, “because my standard has improved over the past twelve years.”

Hoyt gazes up at me, not following.

I turn to him. “This is one of mine.”

It takes a second for it to register. Then his lips part as he stares at the rocking chair with fresh eyes. “Wait. You mean …?”

“This chair …” I let out a laugh of disbelief as I continue to examine it. “This must’ve been one of the first things I built. There was a man who came to the school to visit the shop teacher when I was in class. He had a broken rocking chair. I volunteered to fix it, because I always liked a challenge. Shop class was my jam when I wasn’t playing football,” I explain, glancing over a shoulder at Hoyt, who listens, glued to my every word. “I made all sorts of things. It’s where my love for carpentry came. In the process of trying to fix the chair, I … sorta broke it.”

“You broke it??”

I laugh at Hoyt’s reaction. “Yep. It was an accident. I freaked out. But I was determined to make the man happy. I rebuilt the whole thing from scratch, and … voila.”

Hoyt gets to his feet and joins me, observing the rocking chair as if for the first time. “You mean all of my life …?” he starts.

“Yeah. You’ve been rocking in a chair I made. How did I not put two and two together?” I ask, flabbergasted.

Hoyt shrugs. “Maybe ‘cause my dad’s last name was Needler.”