Hmm. It would mitigate the transfer of sweat, but leave a chalky residue, gross. “Don’t bother. Let’s get this over with.”
Her lips tightened in annoyance. I pressed my fingers into the bridge of my nose, but felt the scratchy gloves and dropped my hands. “I didn’t exactly get Santa training at Stanford Law.”
She rolled her eyes at my blatant name drop. “You think my social work degree required Mrs. Claus 101? Growing up, my father said Santa was a distraction from the ‘true’ meaning of Christmas. But there are twenty kids with heart conditions who expect a magical visitor from the North Pole, and this will break up the monotony of echocardiograms and blood tests. For some of them, this will be their last Christmas.” I winced, and she seemed gratified that her message was sinking in. “I was hoping you could put on that charming grin that makes my knees weak and force out a Ho Ho Ho,” she smacked my chest with each Ho, “but if you can’t fake it for sick kids for half an hour, you’re not as much like your dad as I hoped you were.”
Her cheeks flushed as red as her velvet cape as she glared through those ugly glasses. I didn’t expect her outburst, but apparently if you mess with a social worker’s kids, it brings out the Mama Bear.
Wait a minute. Makes her knees weak? File that away for later.
I must have scowled, because my North Pole wife threw her hands up. “Fine, if you can’t handle it, give me the jacket and I’ll do it myself.”
What? She couldn’t … I shook my head. “You can’t be Santa.”
“You don’t think Santa could be a woman? You really think a straight married white man manages the list of what every kid wants?”
Well no, obviously not, that’s why he has elves. He delegates.
Before I could protest, she held up an accusing finger. “Bet you can’t keep track of your own family. Quick: When’s Mallory’s birthday?”
“April … 12.”
“It’s May 1.”
Ha! I knew it was in the spring.
“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.
