Page 19 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“You love it,” I tease, falling into step beside her.

My grouchy travel buddy rolls her eyes and takes a breath. I can almost see her counting to ten in her head. “Let’s find the car so we can get some AC.”

I slam the button on the key fob. A cherry red Mustang convertible chirps back like it’s happy to see us. Chase’s face goesthrough a dozen different expressions in one fleeting moment, landing somewhere betweenI’m gonna hurlandDo they have the death penalty in Florida?

“A convertible? In this sauna? Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“My turf, my rules. Equal partners, remember?”

“I didn’t think it was possible to hate you more than I already do. Congrats, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“Oh, you wait. We’ve got two whole weeks ahead of us.”

We climb into the car. I rev the engine and peel out of the parking deck. The Florida sun hits me with its warm caress, and I feel something inside me uncoil. I’m home.

Miami is its own world—a cocktail of cultures served in a glass rimmed with beach sand and tourist traps—and I love it, but what I love more is the moment I hang a left onto Highway 41, head toward the Everglades, and leave the concrete jungle in my rearview.

I’m alive!

The landscape opens up around us, wild and untamed, just like yours truly.

“Where are you taking me?” Chase asks, her voice laced with suspicion. “I thought you lived in Miami?”

“I said I livecloseto Miami. Marco Island is my home,” I reply, puffing out my chest like a proud peacock.

“Is that a real place, or did you just make that up to mess with me?”

I chuckle. “Oh, it’s real. Sit back and enjoy the drive. We’re taking the scenic route.”

As we cruise along, I drink in the sight of the endless wetlands covered in green sawgrass—cypress trees scattered across the shimmering waterways. It’s a scene from a movie, but better. The beautiful blue sky—no L.A. smog—and pure, puffy white clouds.

This. Is. Livin’.

Don’t get me wrong, Hollywood’s a crazy ride, but there’s something about the untamed terrain of Florida that blows L.A. out of the water.

I take a deep breath, savoring the mix of earthy wetland aromas and rich swampy smells. I glance over at Chase, expecting to see her equally enraptured by the view. Instead, she’s gagging dramatically. Her face is scrunched up like she’s caught a whiff of a particularly ripe dumpster.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is that smell?” she chokes out. “Did something die?”

“That’s nature’s perfume,” I say, patting the steering wheel affectionately. “Nothing rivals the smell of the wetlands.”

“Please, put the top up. I will pay you $500. I’m seriously going to throw up.”

I grab the pine-scented air freshener off the rearview mirror and toss it to her. “Here, I’ll enjoy the swamp, and you can protect your nose with the manufactured scent of Christmas.”

“You had to grow up in Florida, didn’t you?” she complains. “This is not Miami. This is a wasteland. How are we supposed to promote the movie in Dump Water, Nowhere?”

I give an empty chuckle, trying to shake off Chase’s judgment of my childhood, my values, my home.You invited yourself here, you selfish little—I stop myself, smiling with satisfaction at how miserable she is.

She can wallow all she wants. I’m in my happy place.

“Trust me, Christmas in Florida is magical. It’s not like any other place on Earth,” I say, my hometown pride taking over. “My family has lots of fun holiday traditions that don’t involve freezing our butts off.”

“Let me guess… Instead of an ugly sweater contest, it’s an ugly bikini contest?” she snarks.

“When you report back to your leader, Satan, can you ask him if you’re allowed to wear a bikini while you’re here and maybe smile a little? I know he has a strict ‘no fun in the sun’ policy.”

“You’re such a dick.”

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