My head is throbbing the moment it makes contact with the hard wood of the bunk above me. These beds were made for prepubescent tweens, not college-aged men. My vision goes starry for a second, and the unfamiliar room is spinning.
With my forehead radiating pain, it takes me a second to realign my world. When I remember where I am, I need all my strength not to dive headfirst back into the non-memory-foam pillow.
Thwack.
I’m up now, more careful this time, and my heart is racing. I inch toward the glass sliding door, stepping over what I assume are Hector’s stray, smelly sneakers, to see what hillside horrors await me.
Just beyond the patio, the sneaker owner himself is chopping wood for the family room fireplace. He moves with the certain, calculated grace of a man who does this by trade. His lean, limber arms are misleading. He wields the tool with semi-impressive strength.
Not impressive enough to distract from the pounding ache he indirectly caused. If we’re going to be roommates, he needs to be more considerate when I’m napping. GADs—generalized anxiety disorders—are difficult enough to manage without my much-needed rest being interrupted. Not that I’d share that personal information with him.
Aggravated, I fling open the door and call into the yard, “Do you mind? Some of us are trying to get some beauty rest.”
“Judging from that huge red mark on your head, it must not have worked.” Hector inspects the glaring spot right below my deflated bangs but keeps his distance. I resist the urge to touch it. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing he’s jostled me. “Jeez, dude, that looks bad. Who’s that guy from that children’s song again? ‘It’s Raining, It’s Pouring’ or something?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, he went to bed and bumped his head and couldn’t get up in the morning. Very funny.” If only I could slip into endless slumber and hibernate through this hellish experience. “Is that what an English degree here gets you? A spotty grasp of basic nursery rhymes?”
“Careful now,” Hector cautions. “Don’t go treading on your grandfather’s livelihood or he just might go throwing you out too.”
That comment burrows under my skin until I feel his words crawling around in there between the layers, laying eggs and multiplying tenfold. I shiver.
“Say, couldn’t hurt to try and earn your keep while you’re here. If you aren’t holding too many silver spoons, that is.”
“It’s silver spoons in yourmouth, actually,” I correct.
“Well, how was I to know, when you haven’t stopped running yours?”
I freeze. Never in my life has someone come for me so directly like this. Everyone hides behind their computers, writing articles and mean tweets they think I’ll never see, but here’s this stranger unabashedly going toe-to-toe with me.
Fuck.Do I find that…refreshing?
Up against the house is a pile of already split logs. It’s almost like he made those last two whacks extra loud just to startle me. Since we’ll be sharing a room and a bed frame for the foreseeable future, I slip on a coat and boots and switch to playing faux nice.
“Fine, I’ll help. Hand me the ax,” I demand, stepping into the frigid late-afternoon air. Gramps showed me how to do this once as a kid. Albeit with a toy ax, and the wood was obviously already split, but the principles are the same.
“This is a wood-splittingmaul. An ax would stick.”
“Right. And I should care because?”
“Because around here, you can’t chop wood if you can’t properly identify the tool.”
“Oh, I think I’ve properly identified the tool, all right.” My eyes prod him with a pointed once-over.
He tuts. “You should just carry the ones I’ve already split upstairs, so nobody gets hurt.” He puts on his safety glasses and tan gloves again, giving me the brush-off.
Slowly seething, I watch him prop the dry, semi-frozen chunk on a stout stump, square off his pelvis, and swing from his waist with force until the log parts. I’d almost be awed if I wasn’t so annoyed.
“Are you waiting for something?” he asks, already preparing the next piece.
I hold out my hands. “Princes don’t back down from challenges. Mom and I once beat the editor-in-chief of a prestigious fashion magazine and her daughter at an impromptu game of doubles tennis. And we hadn’t even warmed up. So, hand it over.”
He laughs, louder this time. “You’re joking, right?”
“What, like it’s hard?”
I step closer, daring him to deter me again. This guy thinks because I’m well-groomed that I’m inept. Well, I’ll show him.
He shakes his head, gives in, and hands me his gloves and the maul. I shoot him my most sneering smile. He backs away quickly, sussing out the safest distance like I’m planning on taking his head off.
