Page 165 of Coach
“Sure, whatever you say,” he said, like I was a toddler insisting I didn’t need a nap.
We rode in silence for a few miles, Mike still chuckling under his breath now and then, me pretending I wasn’t re-living every single second of that encounter and cringing. Finally, we turned into the empty school parking lot, where my beat-up Jeep sat under one of the flickering light posts.
Mike coasted to a stop and put the car in park.Before I could open the door, he leaned over and smirked.
“Next time we see Flannel Daddy,” he said, voice low and mischievous, “you’re gonna talk to him like a real adult, maybe lick his lobe for good measure.”
“Iama real adult, damn it!”
Mike cocked one brow—like he did when one of his students offered some lame excuse for failing to complete an assignment. “You’re a real adult who described antique shopping as ‘too gay, even for us.’”
“Do you ever forget anything? I mean . . . anything?” I muttered.
“Nope. Never.” He poked me hard in the ribs. “Flirt, dumbass, or at least try. I refuse to attend your wedding if the vows involve you sobbing, ‘I wanted to say hi, but I was scared you’d freeze my toes off and sell them at an auction.’”
I flipped him off as I climbed out of the truck.
He just laughed, leaning out the window.
“Be safe, my little pasta princess!” he called as I slammed the door.
I fired back anotherverymature hand gesture as I stomped toward my Wrangler; but under all the embarrassment and denial, deep in the traitorous, aching part of me I liked to pretend didn’t exist . . .
I hoped we might see Flannel Daddy again.
Chapter 4
Shane
The chisel hissed across the wood, the blade shaving off thin curls that drifted down like lazy smoke.
I leaned into the cut—steady, deliberate. The grain fought me a little—walnut always did—but there was a kind of peace in the resistance, in the feel of good steel sliding through stubborn wood.
Out here, in the shop, with the old ceiling fan rattling above and the smell of oil and sawdust thick in the air, nothing needed explaining.
I just worked, kept my head down, and made something that hadn’t existed before . . . or fixed something that once held beauty and function but needed a little TLC before it could offer those things again.
When I worked with wood,reallyworked—not just banging nails or sanding until my arms went numb—it felt like the rest of the world disappeared.All the noise, the people, their worries and complaints and mindless cares . . . all of it slipped away.
It was just me and the grain, just me and the stubbornness in the wood daring me to be patient enough to find what lay hidden underneath.
I liked creating things, but I loved repairing old pieces even more.
There was something honest about them. They didn’t pretend to be perfect. They didn’t try to hide their cracks or warps or the parts that didn’t fit together like they used to.
I understood that kind of broken.
When I had a piece in front of me—some battered sideboard, a cracked chair, a dresser missing half its guts—I didn’t have to talk, or explain, or be anything more than a pair of steady hands. I didn’t have to fill the space with words that never came easily to me anyway.
And I liked the way old wood felt under my hands. It felt solid, even when it was falling apart, heavy with years and mistakes and stories no one dared speak aloud.
When I worked, the sun would come up, move across the windows, dip behind the hills, and I’d still be at my bench, hands tracing curves and faults and finding where the broken parts could come together again.
Out here, I didn’t have to perform, to smile or say the right thing, or guess what someone else wanted from me.
Wood didn’t expect anything except what I already knew how to give: time, care, patience.
Wood made sense.
