Page 130 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

But I know him. Underneath the gruff? He’s watching his nephew like a hawk.

The kid’s going through it.

Fucking Mike Stevens.

Every time I think about him packing up a minivan to run away with his yoga instructor girlfriend, Stormee, and just leaving Kelly a note like he’s canceling a dentist appointment, my hands curl into fists.

Kelly and Thatch are good people, and I got their backs.

So, I asked Thatcher a few nights ago, leaning against the sawmill wall while the blades whined in the background, “You want me to have some guys pay him a visit?”

He doesn’t know much about my personal life, but he knows I come from money, and people with money always seem to know those kinds of people.

Thatcher just gave me that look.

The one that says he’s two seconds away from total violence but choosing restraint.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

For now.

So I mind my business.

But I’m here.

And he knows it.

This morning I’m in my workshop, the smell of heated metal and oiled wood thick in the air, going over more sunflower pieces for the show.

The exhibit is in two weeks.

My signature, GCM, is on every piece now. Loud and proud.

But the headlines are gonna call me something else.

The Lumberjack Artist.

And they’re going to highlight the nonprofit where most of the money goes.

Still feels surreal.

But I think it’s time.

To stop hiding.

Stop running.

Stop letting the past dictate my present. My future.

When I do think of the future, I see her in it. Clara.

So sweet and perfect and mine.

But is she? Is she really?

Doubt is such an ugly motherfucker.

And it’s not winning today.