The dogs chase each other around the untouched snow in front of the cabin. Este leans against the railing, watching them. From this angle, leaning over, I can just see the edge of her shorts, where her sweatshirt rides up. They’re the same navy she’s wearing on top, with a scalloped edge.
I focus on the logs in front of me, drawing in a deep breath. Pick up the log, place it on the stump, swing, split, next. Pick up the log, place it on the stump, swing—ow. My arm spasms on the downward swing, and I grimace. Considering all of the psychological effects of the accident I’m still living with, there are very few physical side effects. I have some scars, and my arm gives out more than I’d like it to. I’ve done my best to keep it strong over the years, but it’s always worse in the cold.
It takes me two swings to split the log, but I manage and set aside the smaller pieces for firewood.
I hear footsteps on the porch, but I don’t need to look up to know Este is watching me. I can feel her.
Wood. Focus on the wood.
The logs. Christ.
I make it through most of the pile before she speaks:
“Why do you use an axe instead of the chainsaw to cut it?”
I look up, following her gaze to the chainsaw leaning against my workshop door. I oiled it up before I started gathering wood, and I hate the smell, so I always leave it outside to air out for a while.
“The chainsaw is better for bigger things. And I’m not technically cutting these. The axe lets me split them along their natural grain.”
She peers curiously at the pile of firewood on the tarp I have set out. “Can I try?”
God fucking help me.
“Of course. Come here, I’ll teach you.”
Snow crunches beneath her boots as she comes over. She takes the axe and weighs it in her hands, pressing her finger to the tip of the blade. “It’s not very sharp.”
“It’s been a while since I sharpened it. I’ll get to it soon. It’s easier when it’s sharp, but it doesn’t need to be for this. Gravity, the weight, and the wood grain do most of the work.”
I step aside so she can stand in front of the stump, and she holds the axe out, looking back at me.
There’s really no other way to show her how to properly hold it than to stand behind her and guide her, like it’s a pool cue or something. I take a deep breath and wrap my arms around her, placing my hands on top of hers on the axe.
“Right there. Okay, now you want to spread your legs,” I say, and immediately regret it. I feel the words register as she tenses in my arms. And then I make it significantlyworse by using my knee to nudge her legs apart. I’m wearing thick jeans, but I swear I can somehow feel her skin through the denim.
“Like this?” Her voice is low, breathy.
Am I imagining it, or is she pushing her ass back into me?
I must be imagining it. There’s no way…
“Yeah. Like that. Now just bring the axe down.”
She does, and the wood splits perfectly in two.
“Holy shit,” Este says, turning back to grin at me. “That felt amazing. Can I do it again?”
I’m not sure I could ever say no to that smile. Dangerous.
Este finishes the rest of the pile with my “assistance.” After the first log, she really doesn’t need me standing behind her, guiding her hands, but neither of us makes any move to put distance between us.
When we’re finished, and I have no excuse not to step back, my body feels the absence of her.
She insists on helping me carry the firewood into the log store against the side of the cabin, and I resist the urge to demand she go inside before she gets frostbite. I keep firewood in a few places around the cabin—it’s a force of habit to keep a stockpile, because of the years I couldn’t drag myself outside to chop wood. I went cold more than a few nights back then. It’s been a while, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.
I fill up a bucket to take inside and brush my hands off on my jeans.
“This was fun. Can I help next time you’re doing it?”Este asks, and she sounds genuine. I get the feeling she likes to learn new things, and I can’t imagine she has much of an opportunity to deal with wood in Chicago.
