Page 29 of Little Bird
Instead of answering, Gunner growls in disgust and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Gabe suddenly switches from laughing to furious, for reasons I don’t understand, and storms after his dad, leaving me standing in the work room like the third wheel I so obviously am. Though moments later, I’m glad to have been left out of it, because Gunner and Gabe begin screaming at each other in the office part of the building, their voices rising higher and higher as the argument quickly escalates. I look around the room, desperate for a place to hide, but then realize that they’re not really shouting. They’re having a conversation.
Granted, it’s a screamed conversation.
But they’re definitely talking.
And they seem to have forgotten that I’m here, which makes this a perfect time to gather a little information.
I move quickly toward the door and stand against the wall, making sure that I’ll be out of the way if one of them comes barging through, intent on dragging me into whatever argument they’re having. It doesn’t take long for me to think they’ve forgotten about me, though. They seem to be having an argument they’ve had multiple times before. They’re arguing about money—or the lack thereof—and Gabe is accusing Gunner of being in a bad mood because he’s running the numbers again. He’s saying that there’s an obvious answer to the problem but Gunner is too fucking stubborn and old-fashioned to see it, and he won’t listen when Gabe tries to help. Gunner is shouting back that Gabe doesn’t know what he’s talking about and is just a kid who doesn’t know how to handle business.
Gabe screams that the business is running on his talent and he could be doing something else with his time and effort if he didn’t have to take care of Gunner.
I agree with this—Gabe should be in architecture school, from what I’ve seen—but I question Gabe’s timing. Gunner doesn’t sound like he’s in the mood to discuss Gabe’s future.
His answer runs along those lines, and Gabe shouts something that has to be new, saying Gunner is just upset that Gabe is getting close to me again.
This shocks me enough to make me step away from the wall, feeling guilty for having heard it, and Gunner also seems to have been stunned into silence. Seconds later, Gabe slams through the door I’m standing next to, takes one look at me spying, and smirks. Then he heads for one of the worktables, pulls out a sheet of paper, and starts scratching quickly through a new design like he’s using the work to try to calm his mind.
I watch him, wondering if that’s exactly what he’s doing.
I’m also wondering what the hell is going on with this business. This shop was one of the only places Gunner didn’t bring me when I lived up here, and I only got Gabe to bring me here by literally threatening him with an axe. Now I’m wondering how much trouble they’re actually in. Reading between the lines, I’m guessing the business doesn’t make as much money as it should, but from what I can see, these pieces should go for thousands of dollars. Gabe is incredibly talented, and anyone would be lucky to have one of his pieces in their house.
So what’s the problem?
Then I remember that front room and how disorganized it was. Gunner’s desk, covered with papers and computers. Gabe’s statement about Gunner not being interested in the business. If Gunner is the one handling the business side and he’s not interested in growing the business, that could be the problem. Gabe could have all the talent in the world, but if it’s not being showcased correctly, it’s not going to matter.
They don’t want me involved in their lives. Hell, I don’t think Gunner even wants me up here. But they don’t know that I’m about to receive a BS in marketing with a minor in business, and that I’ve just done my honors thesis on rebranding and marketing small businesses exactly like this one. I could help them. I’m sure of it. I could give them a marketing plan that might change everything.
Of course, that only works if they let me, and I’m not sure either of them would allow it. Between Gunner’s attitude, Gabe’s mask, and the weird tension between the three of us, I don’t even know how much longer I can stay. I’m here because I’m terrified of going home again, and risking my mother’s fury and Johnny Massimo’s retribution, but so far, Hawke’s Wood doesn’t seem like the safe haven I hoped it was. I might not have any choice about leaving the mountain. Because I know how pointless it is to stick around when I’m not wanted.
And I don’t want to think about how much I hate the idea of leaving these men.
Again.
Gabe
I bring the axe down again, and again, and again, reveling in the feel of it hitting the wood and slicing through it. This isn’t fine work—I’m not being careful—but I don’t need to be today, and that? That feels good, too.
I want rough, hard work today. Something that will get my aggression out. Brutal manual labor that lets me focus only on the strength of it, rather than any thought process.
I don’t want to have to think about what’s going on in my life right now, or the blonde troublemaker who’s involved.
The troublemaker in question was up early again this morning, her face scrubbed clean of makeup and her eyes bright as she made waffles for breakfast, and I huff out a laugh at the thought that she’s trying to kill us with carbs. Pancakes yesterday. Bread for dinner two nights in a row. Waffles this morning. If I’m not careful, she’s going to make me fat. Give me one of those dad bods everyone is talking about.
I swing the axe harder, instantly trying to burn more calories, and go right through the log I’m chopping and into the ground below it.
“Shit,” I mutter, jerking at the axe and freeing it. That was fucking sloppy. There could be anything below the wood, from simple dirt to rocks, and I didn’t bring a spare axe with me. If I chip this blade I’ll be out of luck until I get back to the house for a new one. I pause, though, to look through the wood I’ve gone through already this morning. I don’t need a lot of it. Just enough to mend the fence the horses tried to get through last night. Our fencing isn’t fancy, just wood and chain link, and we have one horse that looks at it once a week and thinks he should be able to get through it if he tries hard enough.
It never works. But he ends up damaging enough wood that I spent one day every week fixing the fucking thing.
If he wasn’t my favorite horse, I’d have sold him by now. But he’s the best for wandering through the forest, taking the long trip to the waterfall, where I often spend my days off. No other horse has the patience to go out there and graze for a full day, and I find myself increasingly dependent on having that day of solitude. Away from the messy emotions and drama of life. Away from the memories.
I bring myself back to the wood and glance across the pieces I’ve chopped, then pause for a moment. I just want split rails for the fence, but one piece is calling me for something else. I stare at it, then move around it and get a different view. It’s a gorgeous section of the tree, full of knots and whorls that make it more interesting, and as I look it becomes something entirely new. An eagle with its wings spread, talons extended as it tries to catch something. A fish, I realize, looking at the bottom of the chunk. It’s catching a fish. The whole piece is action, the eagle caught in the act of hunting, and no matter how I move, I can’t unsee it. I remember my grandfather telling me about this. How he started building sculptures because he couldn’t help but see the figures in the wood. He took me into his shop and showed me how to use chisels and sanders to do the fine work. How to go slowly so you didn’t split the wood in a way you didn’t mean. How to sand out the parts that wouldn’t split right.
And this right here is what it should be about. The business. It should be about the art of the process. Showing people how their things are made. The story behind the pieces.
It would sell. I know it would. And it could fix everything.
