The things I endure for love in this arctic wonderland.
“Your form is exquisite,” I call out to Gabe, who responds with a grunt that somehow manages to be both dismissive and appreciative. “The way your latissimus dorsi contracts with each swing? Breathtaking. Literally art.”
Everett snorts from where he’s measuring the next victim on their arboreal death row. “Do you ever stop talking?”
“I contain multitudes,” I tell him. Walt Whitman said that. Though I doubt he was sitting on a frozen stump in the middle of nowhere, watching men commit tree genocide.
I pull my scarf tighter around my neck. Despite my complaints about the cold, this place is beautiful, especially the way the snow catches the light, transforming ordinary trees into crystalline sculptures.
Not that I’d admit this aloud. I have a reputation to maintain.
“Water break?” My breathtaking, albeit sweaty, boyfriend calls to Everett.
“Might as well,” Everett nods, setting his tools aside.
They both trudge toward my observation post, breath forming clouds in the cold air. I distribute water bottles from my pack like a benevolent hydration fairy.
“So thoughtful,” I say, patting my own back. “What would you muscle-bound tree assassins do without me?”
“Be more productive, obviously,” Everett deadpans.
Gabe drops onto the snow beside my stump, leaning his head against my leg. I automatically reach out to run my fingers through his damp, dark hair, still somehow perfect despite the exertion and woods-related activities. The man defies the laws of follicle physics.
“How many more until we can call it a day?” I ask, already dreaming of the cabin’s fireplace, Melody’s companionship, and perhaps a hot chocolate.
“At least ten,” Everett sighs, looking out at the pine forest. “The Simpson family wants a twelve-footer, the Millers need two smaller ones, and the community center ordered three medium-sized ones for their holiday party.”
“Do they realize trees are dying for their festivities?” I muse. “Not that I’m opposed to the wholesale slaughter of plant life in the name of tradition, but it does seem a bit medieval.”
Everett gives me a look that suggests he’s reconsidering our friendship. “You’re reading a paperback literally made from dead trees right now.”
“Yes, but this,” I hold up my worn copy of Oscar Wilde, “is art. Literature. The pinnacle of human achievement. Not a temporary decoration that will be tossed to the curb on January 2nd.”
“Actually,” I continue, tilting my head thoughtfully, “maybe next year you should start a tree-recycling program. You know, where people bring back their trees after Christmas, and you turn them into mulch or something equally environmental. We could set up collection points around town, maybe get the community involved.”
Everett’s eyebrows shoot up. “We?”
“Figure of speech.”
Gabe turns to look up at me. “Is it?”
“Don’t read into it,” I mutter. “I’m just thinking practically. Sustainability and all that. Very trendy right now.”
“It’s actually not a bad idea,” Everett says. “We could partner with the parks department. They’re always looking for mulch for the hiking trails.”
“See? I’m brilliant even when I’m freezing.” I take another sip from my thermos. “You two provide the brawn, I provide the brains. Perfect symbiosis.”
“And just so you know, we plant twice as many in the spring.” Everett starts saying, but his phone rings, interrupting what was sure to be an intellectually stimulating debate about the ethics of Christmas trees. He checks the screen and grimaces.
“We plant twice as many in the spring.” Everett starts saying, but his phone rings, interrupting what was sure to be an intellectually stimulating debate about the ethics of Christmas trees. He checks the screen and grimaces.
“It’s Reynolds,” he mutters before answering. “Mayor, what can I do for you?”
I watch Everett’s expression shift as the conversation continues—from resigned dread to confusion to what appears tobe relief. His eyebrows perform an entire emotional journey in the span of two minutes.
“That’s… actually great news,” he says finally. “Thank you for letting me know. Goodbye.”
He hangs up and stares at his phone for a moment before looking at us. “The surrounding towns found another supplier.”
