CHAPTER 10
Evander
“Do I sound like I’m in the mood for jokes?”
He does not.
I hang up, drain the beer, and tell Dad to pace himself with the ice cream, then make my way out through the living room.
“Bye, ladies!”
Summer throws a popcorn kernel at my head. She’s always had good aim.
“Later,” Jasmine mumbles.
“Close the door. It’s cold out there,” Phyllis says.
Not as cold as it is in here, I think.
I return to the arena. From what I’m able to discern, Finn is now focused on the bridesmaids’ gifts and what he envisions as the centerpiece for the wedding reception décor—a big Christmas tree.
“I saw this one in particular that would be perfect. It’s out at Prospector’s Point, just west of Escarpment Creek. It’s a Ponderosa Pine about ten feet tall and super slim, only about three feet in circumference at the fullest part.”
“I know exactly where that is,” I lie.
“Somebody needs to go get it for me and haul it back.”
“On it!” Cal, Declan, and I say this at exactly the same time and then snarl at each other in irritation.
Honestly, I’d be willing to kick both their asses to claim a prize this sweet: an errand that will eat all the remaining daylight and send me far, far away from Finlay “Marital Maniac” MacLaine.
“You,” Finn points to me. “You suck at draping chairs in tulle, so you’re not needed here. Go get that tree, man.”
I smirk at my defeated brothers and head to the doors.
Finn clears his throat. “Honestly, I thought you’d be better at the chairs, Evander. You’re the metrosexual of the family, after all, with your festive fashion flair.”
I hear snorts of laughter behind me and spin around, my mouth open. Metrosexual?
Bwaaahaaa.
Whatever.
A six-four, two-forty package of reinforced human concrete isn’t exactly what comes to mind when picturing a metrosexual, but I’m not going to argue with them.
They’re just trying to distract me, keep me away from the freedom of cold air, silence, and solitude.
“Take the Can-Am 700.”
Cal’s command is unnecessary, since I’ve already decided on that one. It’s the heaviest all-terrain vehicle in our arsenal.
“Hitch up the twelve-foot landscaping hauler,” Declan adds, ridiculously, since of course I need a big-ass trailer to haul the tree.
“And keep an eye on the weather and wear waterproof outerwear,” Finn contributes. “It’s clear now, but I just heard on the radio that the updated forecast calls for a remote chance of snow.”
I turn to my brothers, producing a tight smile.
“Thank you for the life-saving recommendations.” I make sure my voice drips with snark.
“Because, silly metrosexual me, I’ve forgotten all my SEAL training!
I was just thinking how fun it would be to strip down and hop in my cherry ’59 Eldorado convertible, which is perfect for hauling a fucking ten-foot Ponderosa Pine over seven fucking miles of rough ground in the middle of fucking winter in the fucking Sierra Nevadas! ”
That gets no reaction, until Cal shoots me a crooked grin. “Well, you’re the dumbass who tried to break a colt in a Savile Row three-piece suit and French loafers and ended up in the operating room, so…”
I shake my head, as if offended. “Italian, Cal. The French make shitty shoes, not that you’d be able to tell the difference.” I turn away and place my hand on the door latch. “Later!” I call over my shoulder. “I’m off to a tulle-free zone, motherfuckers!”
I laugh the whole time I’m suiting up, gathering supplies, and attaching the landscaping trailer.
I throw the first aid kit and a few protein bars and ready-to-eat meals into the ATV’s rear storage locker, just for the hell of it.
On a whim, I grab a bunch of shit that I find in the equipment shed—lanterns, batteries, a headlamp, an extra parka, plastic tarps.
It’s shit I won’t need but it’s always better to be overprepared than underprepared, right?
Failing to plan is planning to fail, as we SEALs say.
Metrosexual?
I shake my head. My brothers never let up, especially when I’m the target. The giving-each-other-shit thing does get old sometimes, but truly, I don't know what I’d do without all of it.
All of them.
I hope to hell I’ll never have to find out.
About twenty minutes later, I’m on my way. I notice a few scattered clouds but nothing to be concerned about. I adjust my goggles and balaclava to offer maximum protection from the wind, which has become bone-crushingly cold.
Finn sure picked a hell of a day for this errand.
I’ll get to Prospector’s Point in about an hour. Once I’m there, I’ll find that particular tree. If not, I’ll find one that will resemble it—once I go all Edward Scissorhands on it with the chainsaw. Finn won’t know the difference.
I let my mind wander as I continue northeast
If I ever get married—which I won’t—I’m going to keep my self-dignity intact.
If I ever get married—like that will ever happen—I’ll keep it a secret. I won’t tell a soul. I’ll be so tight-lipped about it that I might not even tell my bride.
I’ll just say we’re headed to the feed store, then drive us to an Elvis impersonator on the Vegas Strip. I’ll yank a couple of strangers away from the slot machines to serve as witnesses.
Boom.
Married.
There will absolutely never be any of this Winter Wonderland shit. No sunsets on the dock or bridesmaid’s gift bags.
However, I will wear an impeccably tailored suit, because I always do. But that’s it. That’s the only detail I’ll commit to, should I ever get married.
Which I won’t.
Because I’ll never fall in love.
I’m certainly not interested in having kids.
That shit’s not for me.
I almost miss my turnoff and have to force myself to stay focused.
Why am I daydreaming about things that will never, ever, take place? What the fuck is wrong with me?