“What?” He laughed nervously, trying to play it off. “Man, come on—”
“You ain’t,” I cut in, giving him no room for another lie. “Look, I don’t care if you build gingerbread houses, trap-houses, Barbie dream houses, or stripper poles for basements… just say that.But don’t be out here acting you built the Ark and Manger, lying to Chesteria like you God’s favorite contractor.”
Adrian exhaled heavily, glancing around like the falling snow might’ve somehow conjured an answer or a distraction to save him from that moment.
“Aight… I’m not, “he finally admitted. “But don’t tell Chesteria… please, man.”
Music. To. My. Damn. Ears. … like a choir of karma humming in key.
But I didn’t even need to snitch. The moment Chesteria saw the struggle, the splinters, and the dumb look on his face… she’d know. And I’d be right there, leaned on something sturdy, ready as hell to say, “I told you so, nigga.”
“Chesteria,like me,hates liars,” I informed him. “Lying to her is like signing yo’ own eviction notice… with a Sharpie. But I don’t have to tell her shit.”
I pointed at the janky-ass log he’d barely dented.
“The proof is right there… looking like disappointment.”
Adrian looked at the log, then back at me.
“This why you don’t lie on job applications… or to women who got exes that know how to swing an axe,” I added, folding my arms. “Now, if you wanna keep yo’ lil’ fake-ass carpenter fantasy alive, I suggest you open that phone and hit upYouTube University. Search‘Dummies Guide to Chopping Wood While Lying On Yo’ ‘Shoot Yo’ Shot’ Résumé.’Study up, my boy.”
Adrian huffed, then picked the axe back up, fumbling with his grip.
“You know I ain’t got that kind of time. Plus, it’s cold as hell out here, man. Help a nigga out. I can’t go back inside withnothing.”
I scoffed. “Hell ain’t cold, nigga. But keep playing with this wood like it’s yo’ first day on Earth, and you liable to find out what eternal firereallyfeels like. Now quit whining.”
I decided to help Adrian… not out of pity, but to prove a point. I wanted to show him—and whoever was peeking through that cabin window—that there were levels to that kind of labor,andthat being a man isn’t just about muscles, height, or whosaysthey got it. It’s about whoshowsup when it’s uncomfortable without complaining. I wasn’t out there for validation. I was out there to remind Adrian that real men don’t make excuses; they just shut the fuck up and make fire.
“First,” I began, stepping over and snatching the axe, “widen your stance. You standing like a newborn colt trying to piss in the wind.”
I adjusted the handle in his grip. “Second, stop holding it like it’s yo’ girl’s waist on prom night. This ain’t tender; this istechnique. Grip it firm and let yo’ hips guide you. And swing from the core… not them weak-ass shoulders.”
I raised the axe and gave a clean, fluid swing.
Crack.
One log split clean down the middle.
“Damn,” he said, impressed.
I ignored him and reset.
“Third,” I continued, “stop breathing like you got asthma every time you raise the blade. Control your breath and follow through like you mean it.”
Crack.
Another one fell apart.
“Now you try.”
Adrian stepped up and tried to mimic my stance.
“Widen… more,” I schooled. “You still standing like yo’ balls scared of the breeze.”
Adrian sighed, raised the axe, and swung.
That time, he got a small crack in the log—barely.
