His Woods (MxM)

9 Jack Sets the (Wrong) Mood

When Tyson took a seat in front of his dinner I could see his clear distaste. He must not have been expecting the healthiness of turkey burgers, fresh steamed veggies, and mashed sweet potatoes.

"What?" I ask him, somewhat curious to see what he has to say now.

"Earlier this week, you tried giving me a heart attack with your greasy-ass pizza..."

I give him a stern look.

"By 'greasy-ass' I actually mean delicious. I loved it. But now you are feeding me this healthy shit."

"Yes. Your dad tells me that you haven't been eating well or exercising since...I mean, it is time for me to get back into healthy habits too..." I trail off as I realize that my mouth is getting ahead of my brain. Dammit! Didn't think this one through.

I look up from my plate to find him peering at me with the razor cut of daggers.

"Go on. Continue with what you were saying! Let's relive the reason I am here. I almost killed my best friend." He stands. "I fucked up. I fucked up big!"

"Everyone fucks up, Ty. We are human. I've fucked up. I've really fucked up. But I have learned a lot from my mistakes. I am trying to become a better man."

He looks from the window to me and says, "Yeah, well keep trying, Jack," and leaves me standing alone in the kitchen.

Losing control, I let out a growl, "Fuck you. You know that's no fair. You're acting like a little-"

The bedroom door slams.

"Shit."

***

It's now lunchtime. Only two things have happened so far this morning: I have officially sweated completely through every layer of clothes I have on and Tyson has been completely successful in giving me the silent treatment. Quite frankly, my sweat-soaked underwear is more comfortable than the incredible tension in the air.

Between carrying the rest of the lumber down to the back and handing it up to me to complete the back deck and starting to rip up the planks on the front porch, Tyson has found it very easy to remain speechless. The only inkling of communication I have gotten from him was a raised eyebrow when I cut my shoulder on a nail.

Even when I told him to go take a break and get some water between the rear deck and front porch projects, he didn't speak. He just went inside, slurped down some Gatorade and went right to the front, and got started with the sledgehammer and crowbar.

I'm watching him from behind the screen door as I shove a ham sandwich into my mouth. I almost don't want to bother him with lunch because he seems to be a fine-oiled machine. The swing of the hammer, the crack of the old wood. It sounds almost like that of a lumberjack ballad–only interrupted by the wedging of the crowbar to loosen stubborn wood from its longtime home.

Makes me feel slightly better that he has also sweat right through his shirt. The gray sleeveless he is wearing is completely soaked. The sweat flings from his well-sculpted arms as he goes to town with the sledgehammer. But it is the slight bounce of his chest when he is using the crowbar that seems to hypnotize me.

Almost instantly, I know I have to stop.

"Tyson," I call between swings. "There is a sandwich in here for you."

Without saying anything, he comes in and stands over the plate at the counter. When he finishes, he grabs an apple out of the bowl on the table, bites into it, and walks back out to the porch. I join him and start crowbarring the leftover planks he is unable to remove with the hammer.

***

By dinner time, the front porch is an exoskeleton. Surprisingly, we will only have to replace a few of the cross beams before reinstalling the floor.

I retire to the grill to get some salmon going. I move the sweet potatoes that I started earlier around the rack to make room for the catch of the day. Not a moment before the fish hit the racks and sizzle, Tyson flies out of the sliding door on a mission.

"How do you live without a TV?" he judgingly demands. These were the first words that he spoke to me all day.

I let out a laugh. "I read a lot. Stargaze. Garden. Go for hikes and jogs. Whittle wood. Smoke a pipe. Listen to music."

"Damn. It's like Little House on the Fucking Prairie. Is dinner almost ready, Laura Ingles Wilder?"

I can't fight a smile. He's a damn firecracker. "Can you start the veggies?"

"Yes, your majesty." He turns and disappears into the house.

That kid is going to be the end of me. I know it.

A short time later, I am pulling the potatoes and the salmon off the grill and onto plates. Turning off the burners and closing the lid, I make my way to the picnic table at the bottom of the hill beside the house. Tyson comes out with the squash perfectly seared and the bread lightly toasted.

We sit down in front of a mouth-watering dinner as the sun sets between the trees. I slide a piece of salmon onto Tyson's plate as he scoops some squash onto my plate. He takes his serving from the bowl and then deals out a foil-wrapped spud to both of us. The small loaf of wheat is sliced and we pause.

As though a silent dinner prayer has ended, we both look at each other and dig in. After a bite or two, Tyson pauses to let out a satisfied grunt of approval. I grunt back in agreeance. Then there is silence between us. Not the tension-filled, uncomfortable silence that I witnessed earlier in the day, but that of dinner company eating a much deserved meal with nothing on their minds except the taste of the food they are devilishly devouring.

After finishing up the last chunk of salmon, Tyson, again, breaks the silence. "That was really good. Thank you for cooking."

A bit shocked by his genuineness, I give a nod of acceptance as I focus on the bread and butter still in my mouth.

"You have some crumbs in your beard," he lets out, ending the observation with a half-smile.

I laugh and wipe my mouth and beard down with a napkin.