I nod and start packing more scones into boxes.
Tomorrow I'll figure out the croissants. Tonight, I'll let the salmon scones have their moment. Tonight, I'll let Jace'scompliment sit in my chest without immediately trying to disprove it.
Tonight, might be the first night since Austin where I'm not entirely sure I'm failing.
Chapter 6
Jace
The wood pile behind my workshop is the reason Gabby's standing in my back yard, holding an axe she has no idea how to use, talking about her inability to chop wood like it's a personality flaw that requires extended commentary.
"—and I'm not built for this kind of thing, like structurally my hands are too small, or my leverage is bad, or maybe I just have a fundamental fear of sharp objects and failure simultaneously, which is probably saying something psychological about me that I don't want to examine right now?—"
I step behind her. Jasper is already there, sitting about six feet away with an expression I've come to recognize as disappointed in both of you. He's been following her around for three days like she might disappear if he doesn't watch closely enough.
"Here," I say, and I reach around her. My hands wrap around hers on the axe handle. Her hands are small—she was right about that. Flour is still under her fingernails. She smells like vanilla and burnt sugar, which should not be appealing and is absolutely appealing.
She’s tense. Shoulders drawn up. Breath catching.
I adjust her grip. "Wider. Your left hand here." My left hand is over her left. "Don't choke it. You need room to swing."
She’s quiet. Unusual. Suspicious.
"Are you listening?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, immediately. "Left hand wider. Room to swing. I'm listening."
I reposition her left hand another inch down the handle. This brings her back closer to my chest. I can feel her breathing. Hers is faster than it should be for standing still, holding an axe.
"The swing comes from your hips," I tell her. "Not your arms. Your arms are just guiding. If you're tensing your arms, you're doing it wrong."
"Okay, so I should relax my arms while simultaneously holding an extremely sharp implement over my head and trying to split wood, which feels contradictory but I'll trust you because you're presumably not trying to kill me, though we've only just met, so technically?—"
"Swing," I say.
She swings. The axe hits the log at an angle, bounces off with enough force to take her with it—she stumbles back two steps, overcorrects, and sits down hard in the dirt.
A beat of silence.
I look at a point somewhere above her head and work hard at my expression.
"I'm fine," she says, before I can ask. She's sitting in the dirt, the axe behind her, both hands still on the handle, with the specific dignity of someone who needs everyone to pretend they didn't see that.
"Again," I say.
She tries again. Same result. The angle is wrong. I reach down and position her hands differently. This is the third time I'm adjusting her grip, and she's stopped talking, which is its own kind of progress.
"You're not using your hips," I say.
"I'm trying?—"
"You're thinking too hard. Stop thinking about it."
She laughs. "That's not how brains work. That's not how literally any human function works."
I step back. Let her try on her own.
She positions herself. Adjusts her grip one more time, though I didn’t ask her to. The muscle memory is faster than thinking. The body learns before the mind catches up.