Page 14 of You Can't Ruin Christmas

I lift both of my eyebrows sky-high. “Really, Eve?”

“Yes. A few nights ago, I just looked out my window, and it was coming down in a blazing glory. I had to put on my boots and coat and run out to the scene of the crash.”

“Of… Santa’s sleigh?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes—but I pulled him out of the wreckage and he’s okay. A little injured, but I’m nursing him back to health.”

“You’re nursing… Santa back to health?” I ask.

“Stop joking around. You’re not taking this seriously, Mary.”

“Sorry,” I say with confusion. “How did the sleigh crash, exactly? Was he under the influence? Did he have too many milk and cookies?”

“Mary! No. He wasn’t drinking—there was a storm.”

“Sorry. Uh. Did any, uh, presents get damaged in the sleigh crash?”

“Oh. I guess I’m not explaining myself properly. So, Santa’s Sleigh is the name of the small bush plane that crashed on my property. I mean, it’s not actually a sleigh.”

“Right, because of course Santa would upgrade the technology of his present-delivery service to the twenty-first century. Who uses an actual sleigh anymore? Other than our parents, I guess.” Our parents own a few acres of Christmas tree forest in Snowflake Creek. Around the main house, they have set up miles and miles of spectacular lights over the trees, and complicated Christmas lighting displays. For a small fee, they offer horse-drawn sleigh rides to all the locals and tourists who come from miles around to see the lights, after sunset.

After sunset meaning like 4pmin Northern Minnesota, of course. My parents retired years ago, but the Christmas sleigh-ride through their property was a holiday tradition that they have taken great pride in expanding each year. Many locals consider it the most romantic way to receive a marriage proposal, on a magical sleigh ride through the sparkling trees. They usually warm up afterward in the house by the fireplace, with cider and hot cocoa, while munching on my mom’s delicious baked goods.

It breaks my heart to think my parents might be getting too old to continue.

I sit back down in my chair and use my computer to start searching for flights home.

Eve is sighing loudly. “I’m serious, Mary. This guy could be dangerous. I think I could get murdered.”

Well, that sounds like something Eve would say. As the middle sister, Eve is always herself getting into pickles, and then calling itstory research. When she was younger, she somehow got it into her head that writers need to live dramatically exciting and dangerous lives so that they would have lots of things to write about.

But at some point, she suddenly grew up and decided she’d had enough adventures, and was going to move to the middle of bumfuck-nowhere Alaska, and basically go off the grid and live like a hermit so she could “focus on her career.” Hey, it’s working for her. She writes a lot of books, because there is absolutely nothing to do, and no one to hang out with.

Other than plane crash guy.

Hmm.

“Is he cute?” I ask her, because that’s the important question to ask when someone crashes their plane into your backyard in Alaska.

“Very,” she responds, in an uncomfortable way. “Anyway. How are things going with Sebastian? Did he propose yet? Mom says that even when Dad’s memory is failing, he always remembers that you’ve got a great boyfriend. He constantly asks, ‘When is Mary getting married?’ It’s one of the happiest things he looks forward to in life.”

Well, that’s awesome. That’s not a punch to the gut at all.

“Things are good,” I respond to my sister glumly, unable to tell the truth again. I also don’t want to make this about me. “Except I was trying to get laid yesterday, and he just made me an eggnog protein shake, instead. It was delicious, but I didn’t want eggnog at that particular moment—I wanted him to nog my eggs, if you know what I mean.”

“Mary… honey, no one ever knows what you mean.”

“So, what’s the name of plane-crash guy?”

Eve groans. “His name is Adam, and he keeps making these gross Adam and Eve jokes that areso lame, but also so weirdly sexy. You know I hate Adam and Eve jokes—so why do I find his sexy? Maybe I’m losing my mind. I just haven’t been around much testosterone in years, since I moved out here. Like, if I tried to use Tinder, there are so few humans around that I would end up swiping left and right on polar bears. Or maybe black bears. Kodiaks? Grizzlies… I don’t know what kind of bears are around, actually.”

“Well, Eve, if you’re so picky about thetypeof bear you date, you’re never going to find a good bear,” I tell her, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

“Ugh,” she says with annoyance. “I am just like around 69% sure I’m going to get murdered. But also around 29% sure that I’m going to get laid, and like 2% sure I’m going to get pregnant.”

“Pregnant?” I ask.

“Hello, I am surrounded by hundreds of miles of snow and there isn’t a store around for like three hours. I don’t have any condoms in the house, because I never have any men in the house.”

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