Fake It ‘Til You Sleigh It

CHAPTER SIX

Chase

“Oh, thank God. I can smell the ocean.”

The salty breeze washes over me, a refreshing change after the miles of muggy misery. I take in a deep, cleansing breath, purging the swamp and bug guts from my nostrils.

“Sorry to break it to you, but that’s not the ocean. It’s the Gulf of Mexico.”

“Oh, thanks for the mansplanation. How about I womansplain where you can stick your condescending attitude? Here’s a hint: It starts with ‘up’ and ends with ‘your ass.’”

Maybe Floridians get all hot and bothered about different bodies of water, but the rest of the world? Couldn’t care less. Especially me. Then we round a bend, and holy crap, Marco Island pops up like a freaking vacation commercial. I soak in the view, and suddenly, I hate him a little less.

The island is too much—a beautiful blend of sand and civilization. Palm trees hula dance in the breeze on long, clean beaches. Quaint sailboats. Shimmering water. Orgasmically blue skies. I want to live here… or at least write my next script here.

“What a relief,” I admit. “I was starting to think Florida was one big smelly swamp that farted you out. That stench was un-freaking-bearable.”

“You’re unpleasant. To work with. To travel with. You know that song ‘Shut Up and Drive’? Let’s try that.”

“I’m trying to be nice. I thought you were dragging me to some swampy hellhole, but instead… well, let’s just say you’ve redeemed yourself. A little.” I smile, taking in the sand, city, and sky.

Ethan smirks. “I’d hold off on thanking me just yet.” He turns the wheel sharply, steering us into a dense patch of trees on a two-lane gravel road. Seconds later, it looks (and smells) awfully similar to the Everglades.

“Where are you going?” I ask frantically. “You said you lived on the island!”

“Oh, yeah, about that. I meant to say I live near the island.”

“You’re such an asshole. I can’t fucking stand you.”

“You’re gonna need that rage for where we’re going. Destination: Mosquitoville. Population: ALL OF THEM.”

As we plunge deeper into Jurassic Swamp, my mind reels with questions. How does someone go from a redneck in Shrek’s backyard to a leading man in Tinseltown, USA? This is Ethan Barrett, for crying out loud. A man who’s made swooning an Olympic sport. He should be another Hollywood blowhard lounging in Malibu mansions—not playing Tarzan in the backwaters of Florida.

“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 fun Nightmare Before Christmas kind.

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?

“And I’m so excited to meet your girlfriend!” she gushes.

“Chase, this is my mama, Darla,” Ethan says, gesturing between us.

I extend my hand, summoning every ounce of politeness I can muster. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Barrett. Thank you for having me.”

Darla looks at my outstretched hand like it’s a foreign object from another planet. “Oh honey,” she coos, “we don’t do formal here!”

She pulls me into a hug with the grip of a python. The scent of sugar cookies and peppermint Schnapps invades my senses, and I fight the urge to sneeze directly into her tinsel-adorned hair.

After what feels like forever, Darla releases her grip and gives me a once-over. “Well, you’re just as stiff as Doug on our wedding night.” She follows with an exaggerated wink. “If you know what I mean.”

I’m still reeling from that mental image (stop it, brain) when Ethan’s father makes his grand entrance. He emerges from the front screen door looking like Ethan’s stunt double from the future. His light-brown hair is peppered with silver, and his kind blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.

His outfit, though? Pure Florida dad on a bender. Khaki shorts, boat shoes, and a T-shirt that proclaims Merry Gator-mas! with a cartoon alligator rocking a Santa hat. It’s like he’s trying to win the “Most Florida” award.

Ethan and his dad launch into what appears to be a secret handshake-hug hybrid, clearly perfected over years of practice. I stand uncomfortably to the side, feeling like an intruder on this family moment.

Finally, he notices me. “Where are my manners?” he says, turning in my direction. His eyes widen as he surveys me. “I’m Doug. Aren’t you a beauty? Ethan, she’s a real knockout. I can see why you fell for her.” He pauses, glancing at his wife. “Not as beautiful as your mother, though.”

I force my mouth to smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Barrett.”

Doug’s face scrunches up like I’ve just insulted his alligator shirt. “Oh my. We like to keep it casual around here.”

“You can just call us Doug and Darla. Now let’s go inside before the mosquitoes smell fresh blood!” she says, wrapping her arm around mine.

“State bird of Florida,” I blurt out.

Doug’s face lights up, and he gives me a hearty slap on the back. “That’s right! Come on in, you two. I just made my special Christmas Gator punch!”

As we follow the Barretts towards the house, I shoot Ethan a panicked look.

He whispers through his arrogant expression, “Welcome to the family, sweetheart.”

***

I’m standing in what I assume is the Barrett family’s entryway, though “chaos containment unit” might be more accurate.

In the cramped corner of the room, there’s a makeshift holiday punch station. The punch bowl? A life-sized alligator head, jaws wide open, filled with some suspicious liquid. Its plastic teeth gleam under the lights as Doug reaches for a glass.

“You’re gonna love it, I guarantee!” he says.

I take a sip of the murky green concoction, half expecting the goo to wink at me. “How did you get it to be so… slimy?”

Doug’s face lights up. “My Gator Punch is a concoction of coconut rum and pineapple juice mixed with melon liqueur,” he begins, chest puffing out with pride. “But to get that swamp-like texture… I use gravy mix.”

I swallow the liquid, miraculously not gagging. The drink slithers down my throat, a bizarre mix of tropical sweetness and savory thickness. It’s as if he blended fiber powder into what would have been a tasty pi?a colada.

Meanwhile, Doug downs his entire glass in one go, smacking his lips with satisfaction. “You can’t even taste the gravy!”

I consider dumping the rest of my drink in the nearest potted plant, but think twice. In this backwoodsy place, it’d probably come to life and eat me. I’ve seen enough horror movies not to risk it.

My eyes dart around, searching for any hint of organization. Ha! As if. There’s a bench by the door, buried under a mountain of shoes, jackets, and what looks like every umbrella ever manufactured. The “Florida survival corner” is stocked with enough sunscreen and bug spray to last through the apocalypse, and is that… gator repellent?

“Where should I put my things?” I ask.

Doug just laughs. “Anywhere you can find a spot, darlin’! We’re not picky.”

Clearly.

I set my suitcase down, and I swear I hear it whimper.

They’re wearing shoes. Inside. On the carpet—it’s permanently painted in footprints.

My inner neat freak screams.

Darla starts excitedly talking to Ethan and me, but mostly Ethan, “You look so good, honey! And bringing home your girlfriend, we’re thrilled to bits. Nolan is down at the shop, but he’ll be back for dinner. He can’t wait to meet Chase!”

“Yes, Chase is also excited to meet my twin brother Nolan,” Ethan says matter-of-factly.

Twin brother? Shit. How did I not know about this? “Yes, of course,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant. “Those two goofballs and their twin misadventures.”

First thing tomorrow—Google “Ethan Barrett twin.”

Darla is full-on chattering about family members I’ve never heard of when she leads us into the living room. I hesitate at the threshold.

My first instinct is to wince. The room is a riot of color and kitsch. There’s so much holiday and tropical-themed decor, it’s like someone walked into a Margaritaville restaurant and weaponized Christmas cheer.

Plastic flamingos peer from every corner.

Over-the-top floral patterns clash against equally chaotic floral wallpaper.

Hawaii called, and they don’t want their patterns back.

Above the countless alligator knick-knacks stands their ruler; a six-foot inflatable alligator wearing a Santa hat and dominating a corner of the room. Its toothy grin is somehow both ridiculous and heartwarming.

The lawn was just the appetizer for this feast of tackiness. But just when I think I’m ready for anything this house can throw at me, my gaze travels deeper into the room—and something shifts. Something I did not expect.

There, beneath the layer of “holiday cheer gone wild,” lies the true heart of the home. Scuff marks on hardwood floors tell stories of Barrett boy shenanigans—teaching the twins to wrestle, impromptu Nerf gun battles, and victory dances. The old sofa and its well-worn cushions bear the imprint of years of family togetherness.

My eyes catch on a wall near the kitchen, where pencil marks climb like a wonky ladder. Each line is carefully labeled with a name and date—a display of growing children and passing years.

A lump forms in my throat. This house has been lived in… loved in… invested in. A lifetime of family memories has made this place what it is. No set designer could replicate the intangible warmth that permeates every inch of the space. This is not just a house… It’s a home.

The realization hits me like a sledgehammer to the heart. Ethan had something I didn’t have growing up: a loving family. No wonder he’s so damn happy all the time, prancing around like he’s got sunshine shooting out of his ass.

For a moment, I imagine growing up in a home like this... I see myself as a little girl, having family dinners and playing in the backyard, curious and carefree. My eyes start glistening. Oh hell no. I need to get off this emotional roller coaster before it gains any more speed.

Quick, find a distraction. Any distraction.

Is that… their tree?

It’s a plastic palm tree playing dress-up as a Christmas tree. A tropical imposter. The ornaments are a gaudy mix of seashells, mini surfboards, and tiny plastic crabs wearing Santa hats. The star on top? A light-up margarita glass.

This is the tree version of a shameless dad wearing socks with sandals.

I can already picture the network execs having synchronized aneurysms at the thought of something so nontraditional in one of our movies. The Cherish Channel has a very specific idea of what Christmas should look like, and (spoiler alert) it doesn’t involve palm trees or alligators in Santa hats.

My eyes land on a wall covered in framed photos. At first glance, I think, Oh, cute, they’re really into Halloween. Seriously, why else would an entire family be dressed as pirates, wizards, or in cheerleader uniforms? But then I take a closer look, and with a growing sense of WTF , I see that every pic features them on a beach next to a Christmas tree. Then it clicks…

“Are these Christmas cards?”

“Why yes, sweetie, they sure are. It’s a family tradition. We choose a theme each year and all dress up. Isn’t that fun?”

I smile through my bewilderment. “Oh, absolutely. Very… creative.”

Darla, pleased by my response, continues, “So, Chase, we wanna be hospitable. You got any special family traditions you’d like us to include this year?”

Oh joy, my favorite game: Dodging Personal Questions About My Less-Than-Perfect Childhood . I’d rather walk barefoot over Legos than discuss my family’s nonexistent holidays.

Hell, I’d rather do my taxes.

On Christmas Eve.

While sober.

“I, uh…”

“Yeah, we’re so curious and excited. We wanna know all about you,” Doug chimes in as he gulps down another full glass of swamp juice. “The stories Ethan has told us, well, they don’t paint the best picture.”

Darla pats her husband’s arm affectionately. “Now, Douggie, you and I weren’t all rainbows and catfish from the get-go. Chase, we were like two feral cats, always hissing and clawing at each other. I never would’ve thought we’d end up purring in marital bliss.”

I turn to Ethan, my eyes narrowing. “Well, I hope Ethan had some good things to say.”

An awkward silence descends on the room. Darla, bless her relentlessly cheery heart, rushes to fill the void. “Let’s start fresh. Give us your story, Chase.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Well, um, I’m not really one to share. And there’s not much to tell.”

Ethan jumps in. “As you know, Chase is a director. She went to USC, the same college as Steven Spielberg.”

“Oh, he did that Jaws movie, didn’t he?” Doug nods sagely.

“I still get chills every time we take the boat out on the water,” Darla adds with a shudder.

Doug lunges at his wife, pretending to chomp on her neck like an overgrown, slightly inebriated shark. Darla dissolves into a fit of giggles, playfully swatting at him.

“Excuse us,” Darla says between giggles. “Doug is a big ol’ cuddle bug, and he can’t stop showing off how much he loves me.”

“Can’t stop, won’t stop. Why would I want to?” Doug agrees, peppering Darla’s face with kisses.

Awesome. Nothing like a little public make-out session to make things super comfortable.

“You two don’t need to hide your love from us,” Darla says, turning her attention back to Ethan and me. “We show affection in this house.”

Before I can protest, Ethan’s arm sneaks around my shoulders. I tense up, gritting my teeth to stay composed. “We’re used to hiding our love at work,” I say, gently shoving his arm off me.

The room falls silent again. The skepticism radiating from Doug and Darla is palpable.

“I think I need some more of that delicious Christmas Gator punch,” I blurt out, reaching for my glass on the coffee table.

That’s when I notice it. Amidst the clutter, an overly lifelike, four-foot-long alligator decoration sits on the ground. Unnerving. I study its scaly tail, then scan its rough, prehistoric body all the way to its blunt snout under half-lidded eyes. So much detail. I’d swear it was breathing… if it wasn’t wearing a Santa hat and holding a cheesy stuffed flamingo in its mouth.

Weird.

Then.

It.

MOVES!

I scream, clinging to Ethan.

“Oh, that’s just Bubbles,” Doug says casually, as if having a live, forty-pound alligator in one’s living room is normal. He scoops up the gator with two hands, hugging it affectionately like a super-long wiener dog. “He’s friendly. See?”

Before I can protest, Doug sets Bubbles onto my lap, wrapping my arms around the scaly creature. Terror courses through my veins. I’m literally paralyzed.

This creature is hefty. Its powerful tail, nearly as long as its body, shifts side to side like a sunbathing cat in a window. Then the animal settles, breathing in a slow, steady rhythm as its body rises and falls gently against me.

In its mouth is a mutilated pink flamingo plushie with gator teeth holes on all sides and stuffing leaking out. Darla, oblivious to my distress, plucks the toy from Bubbles’ mouth. “Looks like Feathers is gonna need us to restuff her again.”

Fuck! Now the alligator’s mouth is wide open—its piercing, jagged teeth facing me. I look at Ethan, silently pleading for help, horror etched across my face.

“Don’t move,” Ethan says seriously… before smirking. “Great idea, babe. Let’s show the fans!”

Ethan grins at his camera phone and starts filming. “We made it home. Chase is meeting the family! This is Bubbles, a dwarf alligator and my dad’s latest pet project. Ha! See what I did there, called it a pet project. You like that one, Dad?”

Doug and Darla wave enthusiastically, and Ethan (the fucker) , waves Bubbles’ webbed foot at the camera. I sit, frozen, like I’m a hostage to the world’s strangest terrorist group.

Ethan stops recording and senses that I’m about one alligator tail swish away from a full-blown meltdown. He mercifully lifts the reptile off my lap and hands the “pet” back to Doug. “Well, Dad, I think we can safely say they’re not going to be BFFs anytime soon.”

“You’ll fall in love with him soon enough,” Doug says, smothering the gator with kisses. “I’m training Bubbles to be an emotional support alligator. He’s the third one I’ve raised. You’d be surprised how smart they are.”

Hmm. A super-intelligent animal with razor-sharp teeth. What could go wrong?

I guess when your fake boyfriend says his family is “a bit unconventional,” he really means “batshit crazy with a side of deadly reptiles.”

Wake up, Chase! Because this is one seriously fucked-up dream.