Page 79 of Roommate
“What’s the matter?”
“My brother was supposed to be here to help me get the Christmas tree in the stand. Looks like he flaked out on me.”
“I’ll help you,” Roddy says. “Unless you don’t want me to come inside.”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly. The truth is that I’d rather he didn’t witness the awkward way my family exists near each other. We’re like a constellation in the night sky—people associate the stars with one another, but those stars only look like a group. They’re really millions of light years apart.
And I don’t want to explain why I’m the reason everyone in this house is unhappy.
I park the car over by the tool shed. “Bundle up. We have to walk all the way over there.” I point across the meadow.
“No problemo.” Roderick puts on his gloves and hops out.
I get a saw out of the shed. As we’re crossing the meadow, the farmhouse door opens and shuts. I hear a happy bark. Rexie streaks across the field, ears flying.
“Hey, boy!” I greet him by kneeling down, so he can do his best to push me over and lick my face. “Hey! Who’s a good boy.”
“Aw!” Rod says, clapping his hands together. “Isn’t that adorable? Your dog and I have similar instincts when it comes to you.”
I laugh even as my face heats. “You’re not allergic to dogs, are you?”
“No, why?”
“I’ve been toying with the idea of bringing him home with me. But my dad wants to keep him, even though he’s my dog.”
“Ouch.”
“If I didn’t work two jobs, I’d’ve already kidnapped him.” I scratch Rexie behind the ears. “My hours are long, though. Maybe Dad is right.” Although I suspect he’s keeping Rex out of pure stubbornness.
“Is that your Christmas-tree farm?” Rod asks, pointing at a row of nicely shaped Douglas firs.
“That’s the spot. Show me the tree you like best. It will only take me a couple minutes to cut it. Carrying it back to the truck is the hard part.” We can’t bale it up like they do at a store.
“Excellent,” Roddy says, rubbing his hands together. “This is like lumberjack porn, but real.”
“Lumberjack porn is not a thing,” I argue. “Nobody would watch that.”
“I’d watch the hell out of it,” he says simply. “I have a lumberjack kink, apparently.”
He’s ridiculous. But I still like hearing it.
* * *
“Well, this one is taller,” Rod says, pacing around the tree at the end of a row. “But that one has the more perfect shape.”
“God, just pick one,” I grumble. I’ve already cut a tree for my parents and carried it across the meadow. We could have been done here fifteen minutes ago, but I didn’t account for Roderick’s over-analysis of Christmas-tree size and shape.
“You’re an artist,” he says, scandalized. “This kind of thing should matter to you.”
“Trees aren’t supposed to be perfect,” I argue. “They grow the way they grow, and they don’t care what you think. Pick a favorite?”
Rod does one more circle around one of the trees. “This one,” he says. “I have chosen.”
“Hallelujah.” I drop to my knees, set the saw blade against the trunk, and start cutting.
“Oh baby,” he says. “Work it. Work it.”
I snort. “Want a turn? The pine sap smells good.”
