Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

Hoyt is standing off by the couch, not taking part in any of the chatting, and no one even seems to notice him. He pulls his phone out after a while and starts thumbing through it, bored.

The energy tonight feels weird as hell.

I don’t know what to do about it.

It only gets worse when dinner is underway. Everyone crowds the dinner table somehow, despite having plenty enough room to fit all of us. Gary and Paul sit across from each other at either head of the table, which only intensifies the strain as they converse and continue to one-up the other. Even Gary’s wife Maribel, sitting right next to him, keeps eyeing her husband with concern.

I’m right in the middle of the table, minding my own plate.

And of course Hoyt is sitting right next to me, squeezed to my side like a tight sleeve. Why’d he have to choose the seat next to mine? Each time he cuts his meat, his arm see-saws into my ribcage. And twice now when he reaches to take a sip from his glass, he elbows me. Whether or not it’s an accident, it’s annoying.

“Bet you and Nadine are just over the moon,” Gary is in the middle of saying to his brother with that same twinkle in his eyes, shaking his head. “I mean, now that Tanner and his husband Billy brought those two sweet boys into the family.”

“Well, I don’t quite have Marcus n’ Josh callin’ us grandma and grandpa just yet, but they’ll come along, Nadine will see to it,” says Paul while chuckling jovially. “The bigger surprise is my youngest Jimmy and his fiancé. Did you hear they finally set a date?”

Gary’s wife Maribel gasps. “Oh, have they? I wondered if those two would ever! Nadine kept chewin’ my ear off about them the last time she was over, bless her heart. When is it?”

“This Christmas.” Paul’s posture stiffens right up with pride. “Of course, he and Bobby’ve been busy setting up their new gym complex. It opens in just a few more weeks, as I understand it. Big ol’ grand opening, cutting the ribbon, all of that. Isn’t that nice?”

Gary smiles, genuinely happy for his brother and younger nephew, though I can tell from his fidgety fingers that he’s trying to think of some amazing update or news he can one-up Paul with, but seems unable to come up with a single thing.

I swear, they have the politest brotherly rivalry I know.

That’s when my ears catch another conversation happening with the rest of the table, but I quickly realize it isn’t a polite one. “Hey, I thought Tanner cranks out winners at Spruce High,” a guy shouts down the table at Paul, interrupting him and his brother. He’s someone who has worked on Gary’s farm for a good three or so years, with a permanent five o’clock shadow and heavy bags under his eyes, maybe forty or so years old. Everyone calls him Rust. “So what happened with this new one, huh?”

It takes me a sec to realize what and who he’s talking about.

Hoyt, oblivious, continues feverishly trying to saw off a bite of steak with his knife, elbowing me over and over in the effort.

“Hey, now,” shouts Emmalea with half a laugh. By this point, the woman is several drinks in. “Don’t go dissin’ Tanner now!”

Rust lifts his hands, including fork and knife. “I’m just sayin’! I was kinda expecting a ‘superman’, from the way Tanner’s team is always talked up. Didn’t expect us to get a guy who don’t know jack shit about jack shit.” He snorts, shooting Hoyt a look. “Can’t even saddle a horse properly. Who the hell in Spruce don’t know how to saddle a dang horse, am I right?”

“Rust, I’m warnin’ you,” says Emmalea, though she’s so drunk, even she looks like she’s holding back laughter.

As Rust continues making snide remarks and dominating the table suddenly, like he’s auditioning to be a stand-up comedian and we’re his audience, Hoyt keeps sawing bite after bite off his steak, eating, unawares. I stare at the side of his face and wonder if he really isn’t paying attention, or just plain ignoring everyone.

But Rust won’t let him ignore it for long. “Hey, you, rookie,” he shouts. “Earth to rookie. Is all a’ that true?”

It’s now that Hoyt—his cheeks full—pokes his head up. His eyes dart around the table, which has fallen eerily silent. “Huh …?” he grunts through half-chewed steak and potatoes.

“You heard me. Did you really push around a nerdy gay kid at Spruce High?” Rust points at Hoyt with his fork. “You. Talkin’ to you. Earth to fuckin’ rookie.”

Hoyt stares at him. He makes no effort to chew or swallow; he just squints at Rust with his mouth so full, his lips don’t close.

“We here at this farm,” Rust goes on, “are people of character. We don’t tolerate nothin’ like that. And I know the Strongs don’t, either. So I think it’s perfectly reasonable to ask if it’s true.”