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“Even the ring of soap residue under your bubble bath?” He always misses that, sometimes accidentally, sometimes intentionally.
“Mom! Don’t tell Coach B I use bubble bath!” he whines in a hushed whisper.
Bruce chuckles. “Ain’t nothing wrong with bubble bath, buddy. Hell, I’ve been known to take a bubble bath myself on occasion. It’s relaxing and fun to blow the bubbles around.”
I know for damn sure that this man has not taken a bubble bath since he was a kid. For one, the only tub he can use is a swimming pool. And two, it doesn’t seem like it’d be his thing. I imagine he’s a shower in five minutes kinda guy.
But he scoops up some imaginary bubbles and blows them toward Cooper, easing the embarrassment I didn’t mean to cause.
“Clean, mister,” I order, and Cooper scoots out after pounding Bruce’s fist once. “Thanks. Didn’t realize bubble bath was a cardinal slight to his manhood.”
Bruce’s lip tilts upward, but it’s nothing like the smile he flashed Cooper. Without that buffer, we’re falling back into uncertain territory.
“Thanks for lunch, Al. I had fun, hadn’t thought about those days in a long time.” His voice washes over me, perking up goosebumps over every inch of my skin. I know he can see them, considering the little amount of clothing I’m wearing, but he doesn’t mention it.
“Me either.” I should say something about last night, apologize again, maybe, but the words don’t come.
He turns to go, his long strides getting him to the front door quickly. “See ya at practice.”
And he’s gone. The door stands open where he left it, but I watch silently as he gets in his truck, not the green one from high school I remember but a newer, black, jacked-up Ford with a dent along the side of the bed.
I like it. It’s a little like him . . . functional, but a little banged up. He pulls out of the driveway, and it growls loudly down the street as he accelerates just a bit too fast. Yep, just like him.
“What the fuck just happened?” I wonder aloud, but as I’m alone, no one answers.
I certainly have no idea.
Chapter 11
Bruce
“Holy fuck, I think you could fry eggs and bacon on the hood out here! A whole damn country breakfast.” Bobby scowls at the sky like the sun’s personally insulting him by shining.
“What crawled up your ass?” I ask but still send a bottle of water arcing his way. Bobby snatches it out of the air, tilting it toward me in thanks before draining it dry. “It’s August and we’ve got zero cloud cover, so it’s not exactly a newsflash that it’s hotter’n balls.”
I chug a bottle myself to rehydrate as I scan how far we’ve made it today. We’ve got a mixture of fields, some that are harvested with big machines where you might as well be sitting in a luxury sedan with air conditioning and satellite radio and other areas that are strictly hand-harvested. That’s where we’re working today.
Shayanne asked us to plant some fancy heirloom tomatoes for this summer, which are now as big as softballs and ripe for the picking, and then there’s a whole row of cherry tomatoes too. They’re all gorgeous and red but fragile and have to be gathered one at a time.
We get back to work, filling another crateful in easy silence now that our hourly bitch fest is done.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Bobby bites after a bit.
My brow furrows. “Whaddya mean? Nothing’s wrong.” I keep working, setting a particularly big Brandywine tomato on the top of another full crate.
Bobby sets his crate in the bed of the truck and rests his arms over the edge, squinting as he looks me over. “You don’t even know it, do ya?”
“Know what?” I ask, stopping work to give him my full attention.
“We’re working, it’s hotter than Hades, we’ve got a good couple of hours till dinner, and you . . . you’re smiling.” It’s an accusation, like he’s incredulous because it’s never happened. Although, maybe it hasn’t?
I shove at his shoulder after I set my own crate in the truck. “Fucker, so what if I’m smiling? That should mean nothing’s wrong. Maybe I’m just happy today. Shouldn’t my brother want me to be happy?” I give him my back, heading for the next plant to pluck a few more fruits.
I once heard a saying . . . Intelligence is knowing a tomato is a fruit, wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad. I’m guessing whoever said that had never enjoyed Shay’s cherry tomatoes with watermelon and basil. Fancy looking, but it tastes damn good and probably qualifies as a fruit salad with tomatoes, so take that, chefs of the world.
Shay’s recipes aside, I wish Bobby had some intelligence or wisdom and would leave shit alone, but I’m not that lucky.
