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Chapter EightListening to Evie talk about her life reminds me that while our bodies are made for one another, our lives couldn’t be more different.
Sure, she and I both write for a living and work-at-home. We have the freedom to do things at our own pace, in our own time. But that time is spent very differently.
While she washes up the bowls in the sink and puts away the leftover chili and cornbread, I stand and add a few logs to the fire.
Johnny Walker is begging, so I fill his bowl with food and get him clean water. Afterward, I go to a storage closet and pull out a box that contains a few things left to me from my grandfather, including a record player and a small collection of his favorite records.
Over dinner, it’s obvious that Evie and I both conclude that our lives couldn’t be any more fucking opposite... but even so, she’s here, with me now, and I want to make her happy. I want to make her smile.
She has her heart set on trimming the Christmas tree and this will help her stay in the holiday spirit.
“It’s not exactly Jell-O shots and an ugly holiday sweater party,” I tell her, bringing the box to the table where she sits cross-legged, snipping at the snowflakes again. “But, it’s the best party I can offer you.”
Her face brightens, and I love that I made her smile.
“You’re telling me we are having a Christmas party?” she asks unfolding the paper in her hand. It’s another perfectly intricate snowflake.
“That I am, Evie. I reckon you like music?”
“I love music.
“I don’t play much music, or really any music, but my grandfather did. And I remembered I have his old record player.” Before I can even open the box, Evie has scrambled over to me, reaching inside eagerly.
“You have a Bing Crosby Christmas album?” Evie exclaims, practically jumping into my arms. “Do you have any idea how perfect this is? Everett, your grandfather had great taste.”
“Let me set this up.”
“I’ll set it up,” she says. “You need to get us some Christmas drinks.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t have Jägermeister or whatever shitty drinks you like at those parties you go to.”
She cocks an eyebrow, her body language saying, let’s get this party started. “Give me some whiskey. I’m good to go.”
“No,” I tell her shaking my head. “We already had our whiskey for today. I think it’s time we had some hot buttered rum.”
“Let me guess,” she says plugging in the record player and opening the lid. “You made the spiced butter yourself?”
“Are you teasing me, Evie?”
“No, I was just thinking you should definitely have a guest feature on my blog. I mean, a mountain man who makes his own hot buttered rum? You would have more pussy than you know what to do with. It’s like an entire thing, you know, that, right? Mountain men? It’s like the new cowboy. Only hotter.”
“In that case, I’ll definitely do a guest feature on your blog.
“Oh, so you want a lot of pussy?”
“No. I want your pussy. If I do that for you, will you come back and visit me?”
My words must’ve struck a chord with her, because she swallows and looks away, averting her eyes from me. I take that as my cue to go to the kitchen and get our drinks.
Self-doubt crawls at my skin, as I get out the mugs, and maybe I read this woman all-wrong. I swear to God she liked what she saw. She liked what we did. But maybe she doesn’t want to come back for more.
“This is perfect,” Evie says clasping her hands together as the record begins to spin a soft familiar sound through the room. “Do you have any twine?” she asks as I bring over our hot buttered rums and set them down on the dining room table.
“Sure do.” I go to a drawer and ask, “Green or brown?”
“Both,” she says, laughing in shock. “I don’t think you understand how much I love the fact that you have more than one kind of twine. It’s pretty much a craft blogger’s wet dream.”
“Your wet dream, huh? Well, finding you lost in the woods is kind of a mountain man’s wet dream.”
She laughs again, and I swear to God no one would ever need to listen to records, not a single goddamn piece of music if they could just hear Evie’s laugh. It fills up the room in a way Crosby never could. She sounds like Christmas when she laughs. Bright and merry and full of hope.
She’s a fucking angel.
“You have to help,” she tells me, handing me a pair of scissors. “I already folded the paper, all you have to do is cut some shapes out.”
“Oh yeah? And what are you gonna do?” Holding the paper in my hand I suddenly feel like a second-grader learning to cut in a straight line. I’ve no idea what the hell I’m doing. I may be able to harvest a field and milk the goats... but cut a snowflake, that’s impossible.
