The woman shifts her yoga mat to her other arm. “I’ll be sure to let her know you’re already dissatisfied with management. Maybe she’ll throw in some flannel shirts as a peace offering.”
Flannel shirts? Me like. So warm. So cozy.
I nod solemnly. “It’s the least she could do. Flannel is nonnegotiable. How am I supposed to live up to the lumberjack ideal without it?”
She narrows her eyes at me as if she’s trying to decide if I’m being serious. “Flannel shirts and an axe. Got it. I’ll pass that along to Annabelle. Anything else on your lumberjack manifesto?”
“Maybe beard oil.” I stroke my jaw with mock seriousness. Beard oil sounds like something a lumberjack would use, eh? What else, what else ... “Suspenders.”
My new, nameless friend tilts her head. “You didn’t come to town with any of these things?”
I shrug. “I’m the emergency fill-in lumberjack. I hopped on a plane as fast as I could to get here. It’s not my fault I left most of my shit behind.”
Goddamn, I’m good at improv. I should get paid for this!
Her mouth twitches as if she’s fighting back a laugh. “Anemergencyfill-in lumberjack. Quite the backstory. You must be very dedicated to the craft.”
I scoff. “Dedicateddoesn’t even begin to cover it.” The words flow like I’ve been waiting to play a fake lumberjack for years. “I got the call from corporate in the middle of the night—‘Harris, we need you. Star Lake is in crisis.’ So I packed up what I could, threw on the closest thing to flannel, and here I am.”
“Here you are,” she deadpans, nodding solemnly.
“Annabelle made it sound like it was life or death,” I ad-lib, getting further into character.
She laughs, finally letting her guard down a little. “Well, I hope you’re ready for her wrath. She’s pretty pissed off.”
Wrath? I like that word.
“I’m the hero of this story. Annabelle should be thanking me for showing up at all.”
“Oh, is that how it works?” she asks. “I thought you were doing a job. For money.”
I snort, crushing the cardboard coffee cup in my mighty fist. RAH! “This is not just a job—it’s a lifestyle.”
“A lifestyle, huh? So you’re saying you eat, sleep, and breathe lumberjackery?”
“Yes, exactly.” I puff out my chest, fully committing to this role. “It’s not for the faint of heart. Takes grit. Takes dedication. And, most importantly”—I lean in conspiratorially, lowering my voice—“it takes alotof sex appeal.”
“Wow.” The woman finally loses it, her laughter spilling out in a way that’s completely unguarded. Loud. “Just ...wow. You are really something.”
“Something great?” I raise my arm and aim, directing the crumpled coffee cup into the nearby trash can with a dramatic flick of my wrist. It goes in. Score! “Don’t forget that part.”
“Don’t you worry, I won’t.”
“So.” I get down to business. “When does Annabelle need me to start? Should I show up at dawn? Or does she prefer a midafternoon entrance?”
“You realize she’sactuallygoing to expect you to work,” she tells me. “That’s what you’re being paid for: chopping wood, lifting heavy things for the tourists—you know the drill since it’s the stuff you live and breathe.” She rolls her eyes, and I’m somewhat insulted at her mockery.
“Lumberjacks thrive under pressure. We don’t just carry logs, you know—we carry town festivals on our backs.” I take a breath. “Passed down from generation to generation.”
“Right. Sure.” She’s humoring me now, but I don’t mind. Bumping into her has been the best part of my day so far. “And this sacred duty—does it include chopping wood in coordinated plaid outfits, or is that a bonus?”
“Only if you’re advanced level,” I reply, straight faced. “Coordination comes with years of experience. You earn the plaid you wear.”
She’s shaking her head now. “Well. I’ll be glad to let Annabelle know I found one of her guys.” Pause. “Do you have her number?”
I’m shaking my head now too. “No ma’am, I do not.”
“Wanna give me your phone so I can give it to you?”
