Anger sparks in my chest. “Are you going to hold this over my head forever? It was one fuckup.”
Bastian raises his eyebrows. “Onefuckup? You’ve been fucking up since you showed up six months ago, bumming around my pub like you’re a character fromCheers. You can do better, Brantley. I’ve seen it.”
His words are heavy in the air, and I feel like I’m choking.My stomach lurches and sweat erupts on my forehead. I put a hand to my mouth, trying to decide if I need to make a run for the bathroom, but the feeling passes. I wipe my face with my sleeve and look up at Bastian. “I’m trying to make it right.”
“Whatever,” he mutters and turns away.
We make our way down the ladder and pull on our boots and coats and step out onto the front porch, walking around the side where we can still hear the clack of the ax.
In the daylight, the forest is a wild scene straight out of Narnia—as if the White Witch herself frosted the emerald pine trees in snow. There’s even a tall, old-fashioned streetlamp in the middle of the yard, though it’s so rusty, I doubt it still works.
There’s already tons of firewood lying around, but I notice that the protective roof above the stacks has collapsed, allowing nature to claim the piles, which are now rotting and covered in moss and lichen.
Fi is dragging a large log from the lean-to shed. She grunts as she pulls and rolls the thing, her boots slipping and sliding in the snow. She hauls it up onto the rooted stump and pauses to wipe her forehead.
“Do you need some help?” Sebastian asks.
Fi looks up at us. Her pale cheeks are rosy from exertion, and she smiles warmly, her green eyes bouncing between us. “No, I’m good.”
Fuck, she’s pretty.
I glance at Bastian. He seems equally taken as he watches her, his mouth twitching at the corners.
Fuck, he’s pretty, too.
“Where did you learn to do that?” I ask, nodding at the ax.
“Yes,” Bastian agrees. “You’re alarmingly good.”
“I took a lumberjack course the summer before I started at Whitmore,” she says with a shrug. “Got a certificate and everything.”
Bastian and I glance at each other. “That’s a…choice,” I say.
Fi gives us a sad smile. “I needed to get away from home and get out some aggression.” She steadies the log on the stump and picks up the ax. Taking a deft swing, she splits off a chunk. Two more times, and the wood is cut into manageable pieces.
“This must be what women and gay men felt when they watched Chris Evans rip a log in half,” I mutter.
Fi gives me a smirk. “Do you guys want to help me carry this pile inside?”
We nod, and each grab an armful of firewood. The rich cedar aroma floods my senses as I carry it back to the cabin and set it next to the fireplace on the black iron rack.
After a couple trips, we have a decent pile in the living room, and I throw myself onto the couch. I know it’s probably alcohol withdrawal that’s dragging me down, but I hate that a few trips carrying firewood has me feeling weak. I take a deep breath, fingering the outline of my inhaler.
Fi walks to the kitchen, washes her hands, and turns to us, leaning back against the counter. “How did you boys sleep?” she asks, her eyes twinkling with mirth.
Bastian’s look darkens, but he crosses his arms over his chest resolutely. “Tolerable.”
She turns to me and frowns. “Are you okay, B?”
The room feels a little off-kilter, and my stomach starts churning again. “I, uh…shit.”
I stand and stagger to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I heave my guts out. I flush, place my clammy forehead against the edge of the seat, and groan quietly.
The door is still open, and I can hear Fi ask, “Is he sick?”
“He told me he hasn’t had any alcohol since the night before last.”
Light footsteps sound, and then the sink runs. I squint my eyes open in time to watch Fi kneel beside me and gently press a wet cloth to my face.
