“I like it,” I say.
She faces me, a hint of a smile on her lips. “What about you? Building houses isn’t easy either. How long have you been doing this?”
I stiffen, just a fraction, keeping my eyes on my hands as I slide the board through the saw. “A long time,” I say.
She waits for me to say more. I can feel her eyes boring into the side of my head, but I don’t elaborate.
“What got you into it?” she presses gently.
There it is. The question I always dodge. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it—okay, I don’t want to talk about it. All it does is stir up old memories I don’t want coming to the surface. Old wounds that will never heal.
Just when I think about some bullshit excuse to say, the generator coughs, sputtering once before roaring back to life. I seize the moment and hold up a finger to Scottie before turning to Levi off to the side. “Levi, can you check that?”
“Yep,” he says, jogging to the generator.
I don’t turn back to Scottie as I bend down, resetting the saw and moving lumber around my work station. She doesn’t go back to the topic or press the issue, and I’m thankful. Some things stay buried not because they’re forgotten, but because digging them up would cost more than I’m ready to pay.
After a few minutes of silence, Scottie cuts through my thoughts. “So…how precise do you want these cuts?”
“Within an eighth of an inch.”
She looks at the measuring tape closely with narrowed eyes, and then at me. “I was thinking more like…a general vibe.”
I bark out a laugh. “A vibe? Are you planning to eyeball all the measurements?”
“Please, Tucker. That’s how I’ve always worked. All vibes.”
“Sounds chaotic.”
She sticks out her tongue playfully. “I call it art.”
I stare at her for a moment, before shaking my head and laughing. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
The words are out before I can stop them.
The air around us goes quiet and Scottie freezes with the pencil in her hand, hovering over the board. She doesn’t look up, and her shoulders draw in a fraction. I should tack on a ‘kidding’ or ‘don’t read into that.’ But I don’t.
I let it sit there between us.
Cute is the safest word I could’ve chosen. Anything more honest would’ve cracked this thing wide open.
“What?” she says, barely above a whisper before looking up at me. “You said I’m cute?”
I tilt my head. “Did I say that?”
She nods. “Pretty sure that’s what I heard.”
Instead of saying anything more, I grab a stack of lumber I just cut and bring it over to the porch where we’ll use it. If I stay close to her, staring at her, I won’t stop.
Cute doesn’t fucking come close.
Cuteis a lie I tell myself so I don’t say beautiful, or perfect.
When I come back for another pile, she’s still standing in the same spot with the pencil in her hand and looking like she’s deep in thought.
That’s when I know.
I didn’t just flirt with her, I shifted something between us.
