Page 9 of The Uncut Wood

He shrugged. “Like I said, I’ve been thinking about it for a while. The penny dropped.”

“I’m… in shock.” I wasn’t shocked about what he’d told me; I was shocked he’d been feeling the same way about me all along.

Gunner laughed. “At least I didn’t ambush you right before a grueling timber sports death match in front of a hundred other people.”

I wasn’t ready to shift into teasing banter yet. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“To be honest, I’m not entirely sure I know how to do this.”

It was my turn to shrug. “I guess we’re doing it right now, right?”

“Well, I’m not sure how walking through the woods with my best friend becomes walking through the woods on a date with my best friend, but I have some ideas.” His smirk was paired with a heated look in his eyes I’d never seen before.

Somehow hearing everything I’d ever wanted to hear compelled me to awkwardly apologize for it not being more. “I don’t know that this would be everybody’s idea of a first date.”

“Maybe not everybody’s, but it kinda makes sense that it’d be ours.”

Gunner held out his bare hand.

I took off the glove on my right hand so I could feel his skin against mine.

I didn’t know if this simple act was what he meant about ideas for how we could become more—there were still plenty of others swirling around in my head—but in that moment, the simple reality of walking through the Uncut Wood holding Gunner’s hand changed everything.

4

The small dark shack was almost hidden under the snow-laden branches of cedar trees and snowdrifts. If we hadn’t known where we were going, we would’ve walked right past it.

Once we were inside, I dug an LED lantern out of my pack and hung it on a peg on the wall. The single room was so cold we could see our breaths in the gloomy, artificial light. There was a twin-sized bed in one corner, a basic water closet with a toilet in another, a rough wooden coffee table, and a stone fireplace. God, this was definitely rustic. The good news was we’d have to snuggle just to keep from dying of hypothermia.

I made up the bed with the stack of clean—if not exactly fresh—linens, while Gunner built us a fire. He was quiet, intently making small adjustments with an iron poker to the position of the logs.

When he saw me holding my hands out toward the blaze to warm them, he rose, grabbed his backpack, and removed our pillows. “Come here,” he said, grabbing me by the wrist.

My heart started to pound. For a second, I thought he was taking me straight to the bed.

He tossed the pillows on top of the blanket, then grabbed the lantern as he led me into the water closet.

There was barely enough room for both of us. Gunner lowered the toilet seat lid and softly ordered me to sit. While I held the light for him, he knelt at my feet and rifled through his pack. He took out a shaving kit and a few makeup bags.

Gunner kneeling in front of me made me nervous. “You about to give me a makeover?”

He ignored my dumb joke. “Give me your hand.”

“Oh, a manicure, then?”

“Dude.” He sighed and glared at me. “Your internalized homophobia is showing.”

I spluttered. “Well, what’s the big, black nail file thingy for?”

“It’s called a salon board, Butch. I use it to sand down my calluses. If you keep them smooth, there’s less chance of them ripping off like yours did. Did you at least clean the wound other than just showering?”

“Yeah. I poured rubbing alcohol over it.”

“Gee. Why didn’t you just use gasoline?”

“It felt like I did. You didn’t hear me screaming?”

“Hank, alcohol dries the fuck out of your skin. Skin needs to be moisturized. You’re such a boy.”

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