Page 36 of Synced to Us

I pretend not to notice as I chop firewood in the front yard. After rousing from bed, drinking the remaining coffee in the carafe with a sticky note from Lucy attached to it, and parking the twins in front of their iPads with some Cheerios (hey—uncle status means spoiling them with screen time), I wandered around the house while Ma slept off her night and Brad…did Brad.

It was a relief not to have to apologize to him before I’ve fully drank my coffee, and I found further distraction by knocking on weakened beams in the house and oiling creaking hinges. Today was taking shape. It looked like a day of fixer uppers, and I made a mental note to head to the hardware store as soon as I could. Until then, I had to check the shed to figure out what supplies I needed.

By the time I make it outside, the sun’s fully up and Brad’s awake and watching cartoons with his kids. I inspect the side of the house on my way to the shed (peeling paint, angled door, rusted-over lock) and noticed four pieces of firewood. Four. Within months of winter. Brad is well aware that Ma relies on the fireplace to help with heat and save money.

Cursing him, I took out the rusty axe from the shed, grabbed some downed, trimmed trees I’d arranged to be dropped off to us by local tree cutters throughout the year, and got to work.

It’s helpful, slamming into wood so the guilt can cut sharp too. I hadn’t been around here in years, especially when I was touring with the band, and although I paid the bills and provided money for maintenance, clearly, leaving Brad in charge of Ma’s upkeep had been a mistake.

This is why, when Dee makes her damp, come-fuck-me morning debut, I’m mad enough to throw this axe like a Viking into the nearest living tree.

“Hey.” She jogs up to me, her hair sticking to her shining temples, and her long ponytail swinging. “Looks like you’re getting in your exercise, too.”

“Yeah.” Slam.

Dee doesn’t flinch. Her brows do arch in surprise when wood chips hit her torso.

“You may want to move back,” I grunt.

“On the contrary. I’m interested in Lumberjack Wyn.”

“Just cuttin’ up wood for Ma.” Slam. “Since my brother doesn’t seem to want to do jackshit about it.” Double slam.

“Ah,” she says, as if I’ve just solved the mystery of her universe.

I growl. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you have any idea what’s going on in my head.”

She raises her hands, palms out. “I come in peace. I’m only trying to match this Wyn with the one last night.”

“Oh, yeah? Then welcome to your own fucking puzzle, gorgeous. ‘Cause you give me the same issues.”

“Excuse me?”

I notice Lucy lingering near the drive. When she hears Dee’s voice go up, she waves theatrically, and calls, “I’m just gonna go inside and check on the kids. Thanks, Dee!”

Dee lifts her hand in acknowledgement but doesn’t take her eyes off me. She then places her hands on her hips. “I asked you a question.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Fine. I asked you to clarify your statement. What’s the matter with you? I thought last night ended great.”

“Sure.” Slam. Splinters of wood fly to the ground. It’s not her fault my morning started off so shitty, but it feels so good to take it out on something, even if it has to be her.

Incredibly, Dee steps closer. “Hey—get back.”

“I’ll decide what’s dangerous for me and what’s not, thank you. Do you have a spare axe?”

“I—huh?” My axe falls to the side.

“No? Fine. Give me that one.”

“I’m not giving you my axe.”

“Why not?” She beckons at it with her fingers. “Scared I’m going to chop your head off?”

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