Page 16 of The Amazing Alpha Tau Fratmas Experience
“Scout.” I took him by the shoulders and pushed him gently toward the door again. “Get the hell back inside the house, you coward. Unless you’re afraid of a little Christmas spirit.”
Scout never could back down from a challenge.
He narrowed his eyes at me and opened the door, and we stepped inside.
Marty had gone all out. The foyer was full of tinsel, bunting, and two massive inflatable gingerbread men. I held Scout’s hand and dragged him between them. We went into the living room. It was like Christmas had exploded and there were no survivors. I’d say that the tree was the centerpiece of the room, except it really wasn’t. It didn’t draw the eye because there were glittery decorationseverywhere. I didn’t even recognize the place. Itwas… wow. It was alot. This was probably what the inside of Marty’s brain looked like when he didn’t take his Adderall.
Rows and rows of flashing lights were strung across the high ceiling, and they lit up the room, their colors reflecting off the tinsel in a way that was more reminiscent of a rave than of reindeer. There was a side table filled with cookies, snacks, a gingerbread house, and a cooler full of beer. Every table and flat surface had some sort of Christmas ornament on it. Giant bright red satin bows were everywhere, and I counted no less than six wreaths stuck haphazardly to the walls. I hoped Marty hadn’t nailed them there, but I was too afraid to ask.
When Marty had said he was going to make the house “super festive, bro,” he hadn’t been kidding.
“Holy shit, Marty,” I said.
“Happy Fratmas!” he exclaimed, trying again to shove a can of beer into Scout’s hand.
Scout looked at him, looked at the beer, took it, and then set the can down on the coffee table beside a bunch of hideously ugly snowmen decorations. “It’s not even lunchtime, Marty.”
Marty looked baffled. “But it’s aparty!”
Scout’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “Jesus, Marty, isn’t this a little much for a photo shoot for yourdog? This is over-the-top even for you.”
“What?” asked Marty, his face scrunching up.
“What?” Scout asked right back.
Which was when I figured out he still thought this was all for the dog.
“Uh, Scout,” I said, squeezing his hand and preparing to break the news. “It’s not for Squirrel. It’s for you.”
He blinked at me. Then stared. Then blinked some more. “What?”
“Trey said you’re not having Christmas with your family,” Marty said. “So Trey and I decided we’d have Christmas today. Well, Fratmas. Happy Fratmas, bro!”
Scout blinked again. “What?”
His brain was definitely broken. In his defense, he’d been well and truly blindsided.
The guys who’d followed us into the room—about a quarter of the brothers, which was pretty damn sweet given they all should have been home right about now—were standing around awkwardly. I didn’t think anyone who knew Scout would have expected him to respond typically to a surprise party—you were more likely to get a death threat than a warm thanks—but it probably hadn’t occurred to anyone that Scout wouldn’t even realize what was going on.
“Happy Fratmas!” Marty exclaimed again.
“I don’t get it.” Scout shook his head. “You said it was for the dog.”
I bit back a smile and said, “Scout, in this scenario, the dog is you.”
I’d pay for that later, but at the moment Scout just looked slightly bewildered. It wasn’t a look I saw often on his face, and it softened all his sharper edges.
I led him over to the couch and sat him down. “Squirrel’s photo shoot was just a cover story so the guys could decorate.”
I could see the moment the pieces started to fall into place for Scout, and the confusion on his face was replaced by something that was almost a tentative smile, if you knew what to look for. If you didn’t, it looked like his regular resting bitch face.
Marty thrust the beer can at him again. “Fratmas, bro!”
And this time Scout took it, popped the top, and drank. He looked around the room again. He raised his eyebrows while Marty hovered expectantly, waiting for judgment.
Scout let out a weary sigh at last. “Don’t expect me to play stupid party games,” he said.
Which sounded a hell of a lot like “thank you” to me, and to anyone else who knew Scout even a little bit. By the grins on everyone’s faces and the backslapping—Charlie even let out a little whoop of excitement—everyone in this room got it.
