Page 13 of Peppermint Bark

“I know all my brothers’ birthdays … but I bet the only one who knows mine is my identical twin.” She held out her open palm. “Give me the coat. Forget these heteronormative gender roles. You don’t want to be here, fine. I’ll do it alone.”

“No, Santa can’t be a girl."

A flash of surprise crossed her face before it was replaced by determination.

“You’re right, the kids expect a man, so I’ll be a male Santa.”

I ran my hands along the fake fur lining, suddenly possessive. Ew, why was it sticky? “You think you can pretend to be a man? Nobody will buy it.”

Her snort was quick. “You don’t think I could pass as a man?”

I put my hands on my hips in a silent dare to prove it. She angled her boots to widen her stance. Tilting her hips forward to make a small belly, her hands rest on its sides and her shoulders curled to disguise her breasts. She made direct eye contact with me, tucked her chin, and cleared her throat.

“Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas,” Grace’s voice rumbled, recognizable but pitched deeper. The transformation was uncanny, and honestly, disconcerting. My brother Nick had done acting exercises, bullshit about ‘embodying the character’s physicality,’ but even he wasn’t that convincing … and he’s won two Emmys.

I crossed my arms defensively. “You can’t choose to be a man.”

“Sure I can.” She crossed her arms defiantly, mirroring my stance. “Gender is a social construct.”

“Stop it, it’s weird. What if I decided I was a woman?”

“I’d say, ‘Welcome to the club, we get manicures on Tuesdays.’” She glanced at the clock and held out her palm again, voice firmer than ever. “For the last time, hand over the jacket.”

The kids wouldn’t believe her. And if Dad found out I backed out …

I would do this for Dad, and for the kids I guess, but definitely not for her.

Gripping the fur, I dipped my chin in contrition, “Fine, I’ll do it.”

Her eyebrows lifted in disbelief that I’d apologized. Well, technically I hadn’t apologized or admitted fault, because I wasn’t wrong … but she reacted like I had. Her smile lit up her whole face. Or the pretty part underneath the ugly mop cap, anyway. “You’ll do it?”

I faked a strained grin. “Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas.”

My performance was flat, but her eyes warmed. Releasing a relieved breath, she realigned herself — shoulders back, chest out, hips back, feet together — and shifted her gaze away, and it felt like Grace was back.

Holy shit, she’d called my bluff.

I was widely regarded in legal circles as one of the best negotiators on the West Coast, and she’d gotten me to act out of my own best interest. I’d agreed to put on this farce without any concessions, and when I balked, she called my bluff.

Damn, she was good.

“That was a solid BATNA,” I admitted as her brow furrowed. “Best Alternative to a Negotiated Agreement.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, it’s a favor.”

“Everything’s a negotiation.” That’s what makes conversations fun. Just like we’d negotiated the first night: I’d convinced her to let me into Dad’s room even though it was after visiting hours, then leveraged it into a ride home. But if she considered that a favor …

Who behaves unselfishly without capitalizing on it in a future bargain?

When my hands involuntarily flexed under the itchy material, she tugged gently on the fabric at my fingertips until the glove slid off. “Is it better if we skip the gloves?”

I held up my other hand. As the awful polyester left my skin, I sighed in relief. She dropped the grayed gloves on her desk and I inspected her costume up close. The whole ensemble was a travesty, but most of all, it was a shame to disguise those stunning eyes behind cheap grandma frames.

“Those are part of the costume," she protested when I slid off her wire glasses, itching to free her hair from the ugly cap.

She frowned stepping into a nearby supply closet and returned with a small pillow. Unbuckling the belt, I held open the red velvet jacket. Her cold fingertips touched the pillow to my undershirt, grazing my stomach as she positioned it and fiddled with the belt, repositioning my false stomach to adjust the belt lower. And lower.

Oh my god, I cannot play Santa with a hard-on. I wrenched the belt from her grip and tightened it myself.

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