Page 16 of When We Were Us
Hutch raises his chin toward me in greeting as I move closer. Tucker and Oakley roll around on the ground a few feet away, playing the bitey-face game.
“Hope you're hungry. Jessie gave me extras,” I call out.
Hutch tips his head back on a quiet chuckle while Hudson smirks at me, his hands shoved in his pockets.
“Of course, she did,” Hutch says.
Jessie’s family owns the butcher on Main Street, and it’s no secret that she has always had a small crush on me. My idiot brothers never fail to give me shit about it every chance they get. She was a sweet girl in school but had never been my type.
Hutch reaches his tattooed arms out to take the white butcher paper package in my hand. Setting it down, he turns to light the grill.
“Don’t light your pretty, little bracelets there on fire, Fabio,” Hudson ribs him with a smirk, indicating the beaded, leather bracelets stacked on Hutch’s wrist.
“Blow me, shithead,” he says with the ghost of a smile. I grin and shake my head at them.
A low fire burns in the firepit just outside the orange 1980 VW Westfalia camper van Hutch calls home. He isn’t in a rush to build, and since he lives out here alone, he isn’t bothered by the setup. He has the money, know-how, and ability to build the house of his dreams, but if the dude wants to sleep in an old-as-fuck camper van, then more power to him.
While building the shop, we added the plumbing for a shower and toilet. When I asked him why he didn’t just build a loft with a bedroom, he shrugged and told me he liked feeling like he was camping under the stars. I don’t understand that shit. Give me a comfy-ass bed, a forty-year-old hand-tied down quilt, and a roaring fire. But if living this way made him happy, who am I to judge?
He’d always been the more relaxed of the three of us brothers, and the most willing to fly by the seat of his pants. Our mother calls him a dreamer. I secretly envy his carefree way of life, but he is still a damn hard worker, and I am proud of him.
He’s built Twisted Timber, his custom wood design business, from the ground up and has quickly become a respected part of the business community in Timber Forge. In fact, he has an amazing talent, and countless families have pieces of his work in their homes. Anywhere from nightstands and kitchen tables to butcher block countertops and custom gun cabinets. He also draws custom home plans and has his general contractors license, though he’s yet to build anything for himself besides the shop.
He’s made quite the business for himself at thirty-three, and even though you wouldn’t know it by how he lives, he makes a damned lucrative living. He also travels, taking multiple road trips every year—just him and Oakley.
I take a seat in my usual spot in one of the custom-made Adirondack chairs Hutch finished last spring. The sizzle of meat hits the grill and I sit back.
Hudson hands me a beer and takes the chair across from me with a long, satisfied sigh. “You look like shit,” he says as he eyes me from across the fire.
I look down with a frown as if there is evidence of his comment on my clothes, and then smooth a hand over my shirt. I haven't been sleeping great lately, but I’m no stranger to functioning on very little. It’s just kind of part of the ranching business.
Hutch laughs, too, and closes the grill top. He sits between us, picking up the beer Hudson opened for him.
“We need a fill-in for a couple of Sunday home games until Mitchell’s back from vacation. You in?” Hutch asks me, tipping back his beer.
Hudson pitched all three years for Timber Forge High. The summer before he left for NYU, he pulled together a bunch of local kids and registered them in a recreation softball tournament. He begged both Hutch and me to play for a week before we finally agreed. By the end of the summer, we’d played a regular league season and two tournaments. We were pretty good, and it was something fun we could do together.
When Hudson left for college that fall, Hutch took over the team and, up until I took over the ranch four years ago, I’d played every week as well. As we’ve gotten older, it’s gone from super competitive to a bunch of middle-aged guys getting together from neighboring towns to bang the ball around and drink beer, but it’s still a good time. It's super informal, but what isn’t in Timber Forge?
Hudson usually books his annual trip home to coincide with one tournament every year. Since he’s back for nearly two months this summer, he’s playing some regular season games too.
“Sure.” I haven’t played in over a year, and only when they need a fill-in. Come to think of it, there are a few things I used to do before I took over the ranch that I no longer do much of. Sleep, for one. Date, for another.
“You sure you can manage, old man?” Hudson guffaws, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Mitchell’s a beast. We need someone tough.”
“Why are they letting you play, then?” I snipe back.
Hudson just laughs.
“You talk a lot of shit about being tough for a guy who gets regular mani-pedis.” This is from Hutch, who lifts a booted foot and shoves Hudson’s foot off his knee with a thud. “Practice is Tuesday and Thursday if you can make one of those. I’ll text you the details,” Hutch says, and I nod.
“You better be at practice, Grandpa. You’re gonna need it.” Hudson smirks and I roll my eyes at him.
“I’m literally two years older than you, asshole.” All of us siblings are roughly two years apart, but it doesn’t stop my idiot brother from giving me shit.
“You’re still old as fuck.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “You’re an idiot. That doesn't even make sense.”
