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, sinceof courseI 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—likethatwill 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 mybride.
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 absolutelyneverbe 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.
