Chapter 12 #2
He nodded slowly, then tripped slightly on a shovel leaning against the wall.
“Watch yo’ step, nigga. That shovel might be the very thing that buries you…
in this backyard. If you fall and die out here, that’s on you.
I ain’t got no homeowners insurance for clumsy-ass houseguests who ain’t on the deed.
Besides, I got a license to protect. So I can’t be on Channel 5 news trying to explain why some random-ass man froze to death in my shed ‘cause he ain’t know how to use his goddamn eyes. ”
Adrian looked offended. “So you’ll just bury me in the backyard with no remorse? Bruh, I got family.”
I paused. Something clicked.
Hell nah. I can’t bury him in the backyard… not with his spirit lingering around, moaning, and knocking shit over, haunting me every time I try to grill.
“I’ll do you one better,” I added, lifting my chin.
“I’ll drag yo’ body to the edge of the property line and claim you was never here.
” I leaned in closer, lowering my voice for effect.
“Or…” I nodded toward the dense woods beyond the yard.
“I’ll call back that bear from earlier. I’ll lay out some honey-basted ribs and your body like a charcuterie board, offer you up as a peace treaty, and let the wild take you. ”
Adrian’s eyes widened. “You’ll do that shit for real?”
I titled my head, wickedly. “Don’t give me a reason to.”
I turned my attention toward the pile of wood, signaling the end of that conversation.
I stacked two logs with care, feeling the solid weight of the wood beneath my palms. Adrian stood there awkwardly for a moment, then decided to help—or at least give it a try. But it quickly became obvious that the nigga didn’t know shit about stacking wood.
Adrian glanced at the stacked logs and squinted, confusion written all over his face. “That’s enough wood, right?”
My stare dropped the temperature ten degrees and told generations of my ancestors to stand down.
“Nigga, what? That,” I pointed at the pile, “that’s enough to keep a fire going for maybe four hours…
if you feed it slow. Think of it as dinner and half a movie.
But what you gon’ do after that? Cuddle up with your regrets and a space heater that don’t work?
Share a sleeping bag with hypothermia? Sip hot cocoa with pneumonia and pray for a warm front? Netflix and frostbite?”
He shrugged. “I just thought—”
“Stop doing that,” I cut in. “Thinking ain’t yo’ lane today.”
I dropped another log on the pile and kept my tone even.
“I ain’t about to keep coming out here every four hours like some cold-weather concierge. Nah. We get what we need now, so we ain’t running out of heat at two in the morning with Chesteria’s and Isis’s nipples looking like pushpins and death knocking on the cabin door.”
He shook his head. “Damn.”
“Exactly.” I gestured toward the axe. “Now earn yo’ stay, nigga. Show me them mythical carpenter skills you should have.”
Adrian looked at the axe like it was a damn murder weapon that I planned on killing him with.
“Right now?”
“Nah… on Christmas. Yes, right now, nigga. You said you’re a carpenter, right? So this should be like muscle memory.”
He hesitated… then backed up and started doing a light jog in place… then some arm circles. The nigga even reached down and touched his toes like we were at P.E. in ‘00.
I folded my arms. “Warm-up routine, huh?”
“Yeah... I got a whole system.”
Including what? Silently praying that nobody calls you out on yo’ bullshit.
“I usually stretch first. Gotta loosen up the joints… can’t risk injury,” he said, dead serious, reaching for the sky like he was summoning ancestors.
Stretch for woodcutting? Nigga, what is this? Yoga for frauds?
Adrian must have sensed my impatience. “I’m coming, man. Shit, it’s cold. Give me a second.”
A man with too many excuses is a liability dressed like a maybe—always present, never useful.
That nigga probably couldn’t hammer a nail into a biscuit or even build a box of Legos without the picture on the front and a damn YouTube tutorial.
Adrian finally grabbed the axe, adjusted it awkwardly, then raised it over a thick log. His stance was all wrong—feet too close and grip too tight. I stayed quiet… watching. Part of me wanted to step in and fix it, but another part was curious to see just how bad that was about to go.
Adrian raised the axe, grunted like he was summoning inner strength, and brought it down hard.
Thunk.
The blade buried itself deep into the log… and stayed there. It didn’t split anything; it just sat there wedged in.
“Shit!” Adrian yelled, shaking his hands violently, like he’d just touched a hot curling iron.
“You good?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“I wasn’t ready. My gloves too thick.”
Right. Thick gloves. Got it. Try again, Bob the Builder.
Adrian yanked once.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still stuck.
“It’s... it’s not coming out,” he muttered, tugging again, with both hands like he was in a tug-of-war with the log. “I think it’s jammed.”
I inhaled through my nose and cracked my knuckles.
This nigga.
I stepped over, grabbed the axe with one hand, and yanked it clean out like it was lodged in warm butter.
“It wasn’t jammed; it’s just allergic to bad form.”
He blinked, dumbfounded.
I slapped the handle against his chest and suggested, “Next time, put some anger in it. Swing like the wood stole yo’ tax return and blocked you. Shit… hit it like it told you ‘we should talk’ after you already bought her a meal.”
Adrian nodded.
For his second attempt, he took a breath, pulled himself together, and swung again—worse that time. Adrian barely caught the edge of the log, and the impact sent a jolt through his wrist, twisting it like the axe was fighting back.
Watching that shit was better than ringside seats at fight night. Damn near better than consuming three shots of brown liquor, clothes half-on, attitude full-off, and an ex whispering, “I missed you” after a toxic breakup.
Almost… and that’s saying something.
Adrian grunted, wiped his brow. “Man, this shit usually ain’t hard. This must be a different type of wood.”
Yeah… the kind that fights back when it senses weakness.
“Look, just take a break before that axe gets fed up and swings back. I ain’t got the energy to be fishing no blades outta yo’ collarbone.”
I leaned against a post, arms crossed, cool and calm.
“So what kind of jobs you usually take on?” My tone wasn’t curious; it was calculated.
I wanted to add, ‘Cause if it involves anything heavier than ego or excuses, I’m guessing it ends in lawsuits.
"Uh… just mostly custom work.”
That sounded like a lie.
I eased a hand onto the cart handle and decided to toss him a question like I needed a second opinion—one any real carpenter would know.
“So I’ve been trying to figure out the best way to brace the subfloor in one of the back rooms without ripping up the whole thing. You think it’s better to use blocking between the joists or just sister ‘em with new lumber?”
Adrian blinked like I had just asked him to recite the periodic table backward.
“Uh... yeah. I mean... you could probably sister 'em. I guess… or block ‘em. Depends on... how old the, uh, subfloor is, right?” He forced a quick laugh, scratching the back of his head. “You know, I usually just eyeball stuff like that. I been doing it so long, it’s like instinct now. You feel me?”
I stared at him, unimpressed. “No, nigga... I don’t.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and tried again.
“Well, you gotta use a... torque meter. Right?”
“Ain’t no such thing as a torque meter for wood, my boy.”
My voice had that edge of disbelief that made his fake smile falter, dropping like a crooked cabinet door left to swing on its own.
“Answer this. What kind of wood do you use for exterior framing in below-freezing climates?”
Adrian squinted like he was waiting on Google to load. “Oak?”
I almost blurted out, "Try again, mothafucka!" in my best Michael Blackson voice from Next Friday… but I kept it player.
“Wrong. Try again.”
“Birch?”
“Colder,” I replied, relishing the moment.
“Shit... mahogany?”
“Nigga, mahogany is a luxury hardwood. That’s like wearing Balenciaga to shovel horse shit or cut grass.”
Adrian raised his eyebrows, realization dawning on him. “Oh.”
“In fact,” I elaborated, dragging out the moment for effect, “what kind of saw do you use for miter cuts?”
His lips moved, but silence came out. That hesitation told me everything.
“You don’t know, do you?”
Adrian sighed, defeat washing over him. “Nigga, why you grillin’ me like I’m on First 48?”
I couldn’t help but grin. “Because if you gon’ claim you can build shit, I need to know if you can protect Chesteria. At the very least, she deserves a man who can hold his own… if not better than me, then at least half as much.”
I crossed my arms, biting back a smirk that threatened to break free. “You not a real carpenter, are you?”
Adrian froze mid-swing, the axe almost falling from his grip as reality settled in.
“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 up YouTube 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 with nothing.”
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 fire really feels 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, and that being a man isn’t just about muscles, height, or who says they got it.
It’s about who shows up 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 is technique. 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.
Adrian smirked like that swing granted him some manhood points… only for him to turn back to the log and miss every angle God ever gave him.
That’s when he decided to switch from embarrassment to ignorance. “So what happened between you and Chesteria, anyway? Why y’all break up?”
My brow lifted, and my shoulders stiffened.
So she never told him.
“That’s personal,” I answered smoothly, leaning on the handle like it was a throne.
Adrian went back to struggling with the log. I watched him fumble with the wood for a few more seconds, before stepping in and taking over.
Because let’s be real, at the rate that nigga was going, if we had to depend on him, we’d freeze before he got one log split.
I gripped the axe and swung back-to-back like I was born doing it.
Every hit landed with intention and cracked the wood to perfection.
After knocking out ten solid logs, I wiped my forehead and looked over at Adrian, who was still standing there holding one log, looking like a confused backup dancer on stage—stiff, unsure, and trying hard not to look useless.
“Damn. You the truth with that shit, man.”
I smirked and shook my head, not even winded.
“I know. Ain’t nothing fake about my résumé,” I replied coolly and cockily, brushing past him.