Page 83 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

Darla squeals and claps her hands when Nolan takes a dramatic tumble, pretending to be smacked in the face. The whole scene is utterly ridiculous and my cheeks ache from laughing.

I haven’t smiled this much since… well,ever.

Somehow, the Barretts managed to sneak past my defenses, winning me over with their joy and endless love. It’s surprising how genuine my fake boyfriend’s family feels—as if I truly belong with them.

“I gotta get home to Kevin!” Darla leaps up, shouting the line with more gusto than a cheerleader captain. “I’ll do whatever it takes!”

The movie always seemed like pure nonsense to me. What kind of mom forgets her kid and then flies halfway around the world to get back to him? TheDarlatype, that’s who.

The bandits finally corner Ethan, which is my cue. I’ve been given the prestigious role of the creepy old neighbor.

Armed with a throw pillow instead of a snow shovel, I sneak up behind Doug and Nolan.

WHACK! WHACK!

My pillow connects, and they collapse to the ground like they’ve been hit with tranquilizer darts.

Well played, gents.

Ethan whirls around. “My hero!” he exclaims, giving me a big, theatrical kiss.

I can taste the hint of peppermint from the candy canes he’s been munching on all night. His lips are so fucking juicy. I can’t resist pulling him closer, deepening the kiss.

This is fake, this is fake, this is fucking fake, I chant internally, battling against the riot my nerves are staging. My skin sizzles like I’ve been struck by lightning, every cell crying out for more.

It's no big deal. He’s enjoying a bit of fun, and so am I.

“Hey, that’s not how the movie goes,” I protest weakly.

A devilish grin appears on his face. “Right, cuz that’d be weird, huh? My bad. Back to one!”

I think “Kevin” is going to kiss me again, but instead he turns to the others, waving his arms like an overzealous traffic cop. “From the top, people! The director said she wants to see more authenticity. That means less improv from you, Dad.”

Doug pops up from the floor, looking way too excited for a grown man playing make-believe. “Great notes, Chase. I’d like a do-over for my hair-on-fire scene. I felt like I was phoning it in.”

“Alright, boys,” Darla chirps. “You keep defending the house. Chase and I are gonna whip up some sugar, spice, and nicey-nice in the kitchen.”

I trail after her, still buzzing from that kiss. I bet she’s seen enough tonsil hockey to qualify as a referee by now. Just another Tuesday when your son is America’s favorite man candy, leaving a trail of swooning women in his wake.

The second we’re in the doorway, Darla is a whirlwind of activity, whipping out bowls and ingredients. “So, Chase, what do you cook up for the holidays?”

I freeze, feeling like I’ve been asked to perform brain surgery with a spork. “Oh, um… my family doesn’t really have special recipes. We didn’t celebrate much when I was growing up.”

“Well, butter my biscuit and call me Sally! We’re gonna fix that faster than you can say ‘food porn!'”

She whips out a recipe box that looks like it survived the sixties, stuffed with cards in more colors than a bag of Skittles. She selects one and hands it to me with a flourish. “Ethan loves this. It’s his favorite. My nanna’s special rum cake.”

She leans in close, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Don’t tell a soul, but the secret is the eggs. Always double ‘em up. That’s what gives it that nice gooey pudding texture.”

She acts like she’s just handed me her entire VHS collection of Jane Fonda exercise tapes and is trusting me to not loan them out. I nod solemnly.

As we gather ingredients, Darla narrates the complete Barrett family history, complete with footnotes and a dramatic reenactment. “Now, Nanna Clark was sweeter than pie, but this recipe? It’s from Nanna Wilson. That old battle-axe had a tongue sharper than a porcupine’s backside and a heart colder than a witch’s tit. Tough as nails, that one. Kinda like you, sweet pea. But ya know, ain’t her fault. She had a real hard life, and that changes a person.”

I blink, not sure if I should be flattered or offended. Am I the bitter old broad or the witch with the droopy frozen tatas?

Is this what it would have been like?

Would my own mother have shared secret family recipes passed down through generations? Would she have pulled me close, her eyes sparkling with joy as she shared something special, like Darla does? Would our kitchen have been filled with the scent of vanilla and love instead of takeout and silence?

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