Page 22 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

“So, you actually grew up here?” I say, feeling some serious swamp PTSD.

“Born and raised. Learned to swim with the gators before I could walk.”

“You’re full of shit,” I say, narrowing my eyes. I try to picture a mini-Ethan paddling alongside scaly death machines. “You’re messing with me.”

“Maybe. But I did learn to airboat before I got my driver’s license.”

The sun’s rays pierce through the canopy of trees, casting dappled light across my face. The trees overhead are doing a piss-poor job of blocking the sun, and I’ve become a sweaty, irritable mess. As much as I can’t stand the sweltering heat, I hate the smug bastard behind the wheel even more.

If he doesn’t wipe off that condescending grin, I’m going to push him out of this fucking car.

“How much longer? I desperately need a shower. I’m starting to smell like your homeland.”

Ethan chuckles. “It won’t do you any good. My dad refuses to turn on the AC.”

“Please, for the love of shit, tell me you’re kidding.”

“Adapt or die.”

“Or go home.”

“That’s always an option, sweetheart. No one will miss you.”

That one stings. Time to tell this jerkoff where he can stuff his—

“We’re here! Put on that smile. It’s showtime!”

“I’m gonna have to act my ass off to pretend I don’t want to kill you,” I mutter.

“Oh, that pep talk was all for me, sweet cheeks. Pretending to love your always delightful ball-busting personality? That’s the performance of a lifetime.”

Silence. We both stew in our mutual hatred.Oh my God. How did I think we could pull this off?

As the car crunches up the gravel driveway, I get my first look at Casa de Barrett. The quirky light-gray house is perched on hurricane stilts like it’s ready to run(girl, same).The home itself is a large, middle-class structure that is worlds apart from the cramped apartment I grew up in. It’s idyllic, really, if not for the swampy surroundings.Then I see the lawn—I’m gaping.

Imagine Santa’s workshop and a Florida souvenir shop hitting rock bottom and deciding to liquidate their assets in a tacky “going out of business” sale. It’s an extravaganza of bad taste.

Plastic pink flamingos wearing tiny Santa hats.

Inflatable alligators in reindeer costumes.

Garish green wreaths made from palm fronds and pine cones hang on the house.

Spanish moss adorned with Christmas lights.

And then there’s the twelve-foot blow-up Santa on a surfboard wearing a Hawaiian shirt.

My mind immediately starts cataloging the challenges of making this tasteless wonderland “Christmas cute” for our social media posts.

This is a total nightmare. And not the funNightmare Before Christmaskind.

A petite woman with long blonde hair stands out front, stringing up even more tacky, colorful lights. She’s decked out in a blindingly bright flamingo romper, accessorized with enough jingle bells to wake the dead. The moment she spots our car, her face lights up brighter than her decorations.

“Ethan!” she squeals, abandoning her light-hanging mission and racing towards us.

Before Ethan can even get out of the car, she’s pulled him into a bear hug that defies her small stature. I awkwardly exit the vehicle and approach the love fest, trying to plaster on my best ‘meet the parents’ look.

When Ethan finally extricates himself from his mother’s embrace, she turns to me with a smile that rivals the Florida sun. Her lipstick is the exact hot pink shade of the lawn flamingos, and it’s so quirky it’s almost endearing. I can’t help but wonder—which came first?

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