Page 11 of Fake It 'Til You Sleigh It

What the actual reindeer poop was I thinking? Declaring myself Ethan’s girlfriend to the entire universe? I had a game plan, damn it! Promote the movie and gain subscribers. Logical. Simple. Obvious.

But no, it turned into The Ethan Show.

Ethan’s smile.

Ethan’s hair.

Ethan’s ability to impregnate a virgin with only a wink.

He lapped it up like a dog with a bowl of eggnog, while my beloved movie got shoved aside quicker than a bad Tinder date. That’s when it hit me: Give the people what they want.

I figured I could redirect their Ethan obsession straight to the movie. In theory, it was genius. More movie hype equals more new subscribers. In reality, I signed myself up for the Hollywood gossip circus. I’m going to get more intrusive questions than a contestant onJeopardy.

Unlike Mr. ‘I’d Stream In My Shower If You’d Let Me’ Barrett, I prefer my life on the down-low. I don’t want the world to learn about me, my love life(or lack thereof), or my childhood. I’m a behind-the-camera gal. I don’t post personal moments because—newsflash—they’re PERSONAL!

I want this ten-movie deal so freaking bad. If I had more time, I could’ve cast someone else as Ethan’s girlfriend.Grr.Stupid Wiley and Riley, ambushing me like that.

No, I can spin this. I can make this work. I’ll write the story the fans want—a real-life romance(that is secretly an elaborate PR stunt). Sure, Ethan has a revolving door of supermodels, Hollywood starlets, and occasionally, influencers who can’t spell their own names. But they’ll believe we’re a couple.Right?

Fuck, who am I kidding?

Okay, Chase. Breathe. You can pull off being Ethan’s girlfriend. It’s just acting. And you’re… well, you’re adjacent to actors all the time. How hard can it be?

THWAP!

What the—? Something just hit me in the face. Oh, sweet baby Jesus. Are those…? Gross! Nothing says “I love Christmas” like crotchless panties.

I spot Ethan in the parking lot, holding court with his adoring public. His dazzling grin has them hanging on his every word, reminding me of our polar opposite roles, both on and now off set. He gets the praise, and I get the fucking headaches.

As I watch the women fawning over him, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers: What if someone looked at me that way? Not for what I can do, but for who I am... Goddammit. I shut that thought down hard. I’ve got a job to do, and it doesn’t involve dreaming about being noticed or... whatever.

As “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” continues to blast in my ear, I create my own version.

“I wish you a hairy ass fart. I wish you weren’t on my shit list,” I sarcastically sing. “I’m gonna throw a shit fit if you don’t pick up my call.”

The robotic voice chimes in again, “We are currently experiencing a high call volume for the holiday season, but you are very important to us.” Aaannd… the hold music drones on.

Another pair of lacy red underwear slips out from the pile and onto the parking lot.Oh, hell no.For a moment, I’m tempted to leave it there, but I need these fans’ support now more than ever if I want to keep my job. I give the panties a swift kick towards the car. God only knows what Ethan does with stuff like this. Let’s keep it that way.

I finally reach my trusty white Toyota Camry hybrid—my mobile office and now current storage unit for Ethan’s fandom treasures. I open the back door and load in the gifts.

The balloons have other ideas. They’re refusing to cooperate, bobbing and weaving as I try to shove them into the back seat. The tinny Christmas music is stuck on repeat, and every “we wish you” is making my blood pressure skyrocket.

I glance down at the lacy underwear on the ground. It mocks me with its presence. Using the corner of a Christmas card envelope—because there’s no way in hell I’m touching that STD specimen directly—I gingerly pick it up. A photo slips out, and on reflex, I catch it.

My brain short-circuits like a cheap toaster. It’s a nude picture of a fan with flaming red hair, who has strategically placed Christmas cookies barely covering her… holiday assets. The message scrawled across the bottom makes me gag:Ethan, all I want for Christmas is your candy cane inside my fuzzy wreath.

“Holy shit,” I blurt out, right as a chirpy male voice answers on the phone.

“And a very merry holiday to you too! How can I help you today?”

I toss the photo into the car, wishing the image out of my mind. “Hi, yes,” I say, attempting not to sound like someone who just saw Santa’s naughty list come to life. “I’m calling about my cabin reservation in Lake Tahoe. My plans have changed, and I’ll be arriving later than expected. I’d like a refund for those days.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Mr. Holiday Cheer responds, “but we can only offer a refund if you cancel the whole reservation.”

This day keeps on getting better. I look at the sea of balloons still refusing to fit in my car, and I’ve had enough. I grab a long-stemmed rose from the gift pile, and with vindictive pleasure, I pop a few balloons with its thorny stem.

POP! POP! POP!

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