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“Here, take my gloves,” Tucker Rawlings said from the ground where he’d stopped just below where Grady was working.
“I just took mine off,” Grady answered. “I can’t get a hold of anything with them in the way. But my hands are so slick, I can’t get a good grip now, either. And I lost my pliers somewhere in the north field about an hour ago.”
“I got an extra pair in my truck,” Tucker offered.
As his dad started back to his rig, Grady began to mutter under his breath. The day had been going just fine until he’d decided to stop at the diner on his way to work. “I should’ve just starved,” he muttered to himself.
“What’s that?”
Giving another startled lurch, Grady realized his father had returned. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
Tucker winced against the sunlight and studied him for a mo
ment. “You doing okay today?”
Not quite meeting Tucker’s gaze, Grady answered, “I’m fine. Why?”
“You seem. . .distracted.”
Grady ignored him a minute as he once again tried to twist the two pieces together with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m fine,” he hissed and then cursed again as his thumb slid off and the sharp end of the wire stabbed him in the palm.
“I’m fine,” he snapped once again when Tucker made a move to climb the side of the oil well and check his wound. His father stopped in his tracks and scowled.
“You’re bleeding. I can see it from here.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Take the pliers, will you?” Tucker held them up.
Grady wrapped one arm around the neck of the pump and stretched down to grasp the tool. When his fingers wrapped around it, he said, “Thanks.”
Tucker nodded quietly and shoved his hands into his pockets as he watched Grady deftly make a twisty tie out of the thick metal cord.
“Want to come to supper tonight?”
Grady nearly winced as he shook his head. “No, thanks. I. . .” He faltered when he couldn’t think up an excuse why except that he just didn’t want to. So he settled with another, “No, thanks.”
His father looked a little too sympathetic for his comfort, and he wanted to escape. . .fast. Finishing his task, he handed the pliers back and wiped his hands on his jeans before he started to shimmy his way back toward earth. After descending four feet, he let go of the beam and jumped down the rest of the way.
“Your mother was saying just this morning how she hasn’t seen you in a while,” Tucker said, hovering until both of Grady’s feet were firmly planted on the ground.
Letting out a breath, Grady leaned over and started collecting all the spare parts and tools he had accumulated around the base of the pump jack.
“I’ll stop by and say hi on my way home,” he relented.
But that was it. He wouldn’t stay for a meal and allow both his parents to gang up on him as they tried to get a bead on how he was really dealing with his life these days.
“Don’t worry about me, Dad. I’m not digressing again. I don’t need to see a doctor, and I don’t need any kind of medication. There’s no depression and no more insomnia. I’m fine.” Actually, he’d probably prefer the insomnia to the dreams he’d been having about a certain big-mouthed tomboy.
Everything gathered, he lifted his toolbox and started for his truck.
“I know you don’t like my pity, Grady,” Tucker said, falling into step beside him. “But you’re my son, and I can’t stand to see you this way.”
Grady closed his eyes and fisted his hands around the handle of the toolbox, wondering if B.J. had been right in Houston. Did he bring on everyone’s sympathy by acting so pitiful? “There’s nothing to be done about it, though,” he muttered. Sometimes, he just couldn’t stop hurting.
“Yeah, well. . .doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Tucker answered. “If there’s ever anything you need from me or your mother, we’ll be there—”
“I know,” Grady cut in with a reluctant smile. He stopped and turned to face his father. “I know you’d die for me, if you had to. But you can’t live for me, Dad. I have to figure out how to do that myself.”
