Page 20 of Past Tents

His beer was halfway to his mouth and he froze. Grimacing at the fact that I knew him better than he usually realized, he slowly raised the bottle the remaining two inches, took a long sip, and put it on the table. “Mom and Dad want you to come to dinner,” he said, not meeting my eye. I hadn’t been to their house in over a month.

“They sent you over as emissary? Couldn’t ask me themselves?” My parents and I weren’t on the best terms, but sometimes they at least pretended. Guess today wasn’t one of those times.

He shrugged. “I might’ve offered. C’mon, Clay. Just come. It won’t be like last time.”

A laugh exploded from me at his naivete. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I made them promise not to do it again.” At the last family dinner, they’d surprised me by inviting their neighbors along with their twenty-five-year-old daughter. The worst part was that she didn’t seem to feel nearly as awkward as I did, and Shane got wrangled into a discussion in the kitchen about sourdough starters, leaving us alone for nearly an hour.

“Sorry if I don’t exactly trust y’all.”

“Hey, don’t lump me in with them. I didn’t know she’d be there. And at least this time, I already addressed it with Mom and Dad.”

“Yeah,” I groused.

He held up his beer again and watched me over the rim of the bottle before taking a sip. I knew he was thinking something, and most of me wished he’d keep it to himself, whatever it was.

But the rest of me was curious. “What?”

He shrugged. “Just that you have this opportunity to spend time with Ally Dalbotten and I’m just wondering if you’re finally planning on doing something about her. Finally.” Shane asked as though he was talking about a slight chance of showers during a morning hike. When, in fact, he was talking about a torrential downpour that would likely flood my entire world.

My brother remembered how bad I had it for Ally Dalbotten, but I didn’t feel like going there.

“Not gonna do anything except go camping.” I pulled the steaks off the grill and watched them sizzle on the plate, pink juices oozing from the sides. “Hey, can you grab the steak sauce from inside? I made a fresh batch.”

I assumed the conversation would be over at that point. It was my intention, anyway, which was why I sent Shane into the house for the sauce. By the time he returned, we’d be onto another subject.

But my brother had never done what I expected back when we were kids, and it seemed he didn’t plan to deviate now. He returned with a mason jar filled with a mahogany mixture of caramelized onions, brown sugar, and balsamic vinegar, all reduced down to a thick sauce. “Conversation not over.”

“Seemed over to me.”

“It’ll be over when you ask her out, finally.”

“Not happening.” I handed him his steak and watched his eyes water at the delicious smoky smell. “And now the conversation’s over.”

CHAPTER

SEVEN

ALLY

After Clay had convinced me to spend one night this weekend camping in his backyard, I’d sent him on his way, stripped off my clothes, and spent an hour soaking in my bathtub. I had abrasions on my stomach where my shirt had slid upward, and that nasty scrape on my knee had taken a painful scrubbing with a washcloth to clean up.

Then I’d slept like the dead and hobbled out to Clay’s truck in the morning when he came to pick me up. Opening the passenger door and helping me up the step, he was freshly showered, and all too perky for seven in the morning.

“I feel bad that you had to come early. You don’t teach sunrise.”

“I’ll do a morning workout, then shower before second block.” He pointed to his track pants and fresh long-sleeved T-shirt, which hugged his chest and might have been tight enough to reveal his six-pack right through the fabric. If a person was looking.

Me. I was that person.

I ignored the abs when he handed me a hot cup of coffee. “You are speaking my love language with this,” I said.

“Wasn’t sure if you had coffee already. No pressure to drink it.” He went around to the driver’s side and slid into the seat without using the step. I took note of his sinewy forearms. I watched his right arm flex as he turned the key in the ignition.

I scolded myself for noticing how his track pants hugged the curve of his tight ass and how his muscles moved under the fabric. This was way past my usual idle appreciation of Clay as an art form. I certainly should not have been sneaking looks at how the crinkles around his eyes proved that he did indeed smile sometimes. Those times when his face broke open like clouds letting in the sun. Like he was doing right now.

Staring at me and smiling. Because I was staring at him and smiling like a loon.

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