Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

I step back. The only noise in the cabin is our breathing. Deep inhales. Deep exhales. The tension is so sharp, I could cut all my fingers on it just by tightening them into fists.

“You’re not Coach Strong,” I agree, my voice low.

“I’m not.”

“Coach Strong knows how to lead,” I go on, taking joy in his expression changing fast. “He knows how to get the best out of his boys. He knows how to push us in a way … in a way that makes us feel strong, capable, and … and needed.”

Harrison’s face collapses. His left eye starts twitching as his thick eyebrows pull together.

“Yeah,” I go on, nodding with conviction and anger. “You’re nothin’ like Coach Strong. I was a fool for ever thinking this was a good idea. You don’t want me on your team. No one here does.”

He lets out a strained sigh, baring his teeth. “Hoyt …”

“Nah. Y’know what? Fuck this.” I throw my hands up. “Do all of the work your damned self. I’m not putting up with any more of this. And I especially ain’t puttin’ up with another second of you.”

I turn, yank open the door, and let it slam at my back. I march across the yard, then throw open the screen door to the mudroom and grab my bag out from under the cot. With anger, I stuff all my belongings from the trunk into my duffel, then sling it over a shoulder and march right out of the house.

I stand at the foot of the long-ass driveway with my phone out, only to realize I can’t call my parents. It’s more humiliating somehow, the idea of asking my mom or stepdad to come pick me up. I call Julio, but he doesn’t answer. I shoot Benji a hopeful text, asking what he’s up to. Then I stare at my phone for ten minutes.

The text is finally read.

But no response comes.

Well, screw them, too. I stuff my phone into a pocket and start walking. Won’t be the first time I took an hour-long, shameful trek home on foot.

Chapter 7

Harrison

The sun is extra scalding over my head today.

Scorching, even.

And the work is so exhausting, I can feel it down to my bones.

I usually assign someone to the pig pens, but nearly everyone is working in the crop fields, seems like, and I just don’t have the stomach to boss anyone around today. So I deal with cleaning out the trough myself, sloshing through the sticky mud on my own.

Each time I walk across the pen, my heart races with the memory of what happened between us in the middle of it.

I can’t stop thinking about him.

And I hate that I can’t stop thinking about him.

Should I have said something to stop him from leaving? Is this on me?

I watched last night from the window of the cabin as he left with his bag over a shoulder, disappearing into the dark. I doubt he walked all the way home, since it’s a long way and isn’t safe on the dark country roads. He probably called one of his friends—who allegedly have nothing to do with him anymore. That was probably just another of his tricks to get me to feel sympathy for him.

That’s what guys like him do: trick you into pitying them so they get their way. He’s got all of Spruce on marionette strings.

But not me.

So if I believe all of that, why do I still feel so fucking bad …?

After tending to the sheep and noticing yet another weak spot in the damned fence, I head to the toolshed for some supplies.

It’s just on the other side of the door that I find Gary, who has a drill gun in either of his hands. He looks up when I enter. “Ah, Harrison, just the guy I was lookin’ for. Which one you reckon is the stronger one? I’m thinkin’ the DeWalt.”

“You’re thinking right,” I affirm with a smile.

He nods, sets them both down on the workbench, then faces me. “So just one single day, huh?”

I didn’t want to have this conversation yet. I wipe the back of my neck. “Sir …”

“No, no, I’m not comin’ at you.” Gary chuckles lightly, as if the idea of ever raising his voice is such an absurd concept. “I’m just a bit surprised is all.”

“He didn’t want to be here anyway.”

“I expected at least a week before you ran him off runnin’.” He chuckles again, shakes his head, then eyes me. “But a single day? You sure aren’t makin’ this easy on me.”

“He rubbed everyone the wrong way. He was full of attitude. He …” I lose my steam. There’s something about the thoughtful, patient twinkle in Gary’s eye that pulls the plug out of my anger. “He could put his back into something, I’ll give him that,” I finally concede, “but it doesn’t make up for everything else.”