The Christmas Pic

14. Jo

CHAPTER 14

JO

I hate how easy it was for me to snatch that check for ten grand out of Ava’s perfectly manicured fingers. When I deposited it via my bank app this morning, Chase actually called to verify it wouldn’t bounce–I've never made such a large deposit before. That shouldn’t make me embarrassed but it does. Money is money, and even though I’m happy to bleed Ava and Gramsta dry, I can’t quite accept that me or Chrissy actually earned those funds. But, as Emma pointed out over our coffee run, better to be in a shame spiral with ten thousand in my checking account than be in a shame spiral and broke. Guilt and shame aside, this money still barely scratches the surface of what the business needs to survive even another few months.

At least I have some tricks up my sleeve for today to reestablish dominance in this battle of wills. Ava signed on to be a client, which means I get to be in charge, and I have every intention of exploiting that dynamic, however fleeting it may be.

My phone alarm goes off. T-minus ten minutes until Ava descends on this truck. I survey our setup for the photoshoot.

I've dug out every piece of queer Harmony Springs Christmas memorabilia in my possession–treasures first gathered by my father and then added to by me. Together, Emma and I have artfully arranged trans flag-dyed wreaths, rainbow-berried mistletoe, a nativity scene featuring members of MUNA, and more paraphernalia into a colorful backdrop. I’m aware it might read slightly garish, but that’s slightly the point.

Emma bustles past me, arms laden with rainbow tinsel. "You did say the theme was ‘Santa’s Christmas card if he was a gay bear with a cocaine problem.’”

"Mission accomplished?" I ask.

“Well, what’s the reaction you’re hoping for, exactly? She asked neutrally.”

“She certainly did.” I understand Emma has the best of intentions. “I think Ava is a little inauthentic. Whether or not she started out that way, she’s this perfectly coiffed corporate prototype.”

“Fair.”

I continue, “And Harmony Springs was founded on radical authenticity. If she wants to swoop in here and tell me how to do business, she needs to understand and embrace the principles of the community I’m trying to do business in.”

“So you’re…” Emma gestures at our set, “...challenging her to a cringe-off in order to unlock her most authentic self?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

She nods. “Honestly, a very Gen Z approach. I approve.”

We spend the next few minutes pinning up the last of the rainbow tinsel, with a split second to admire our handiwork before we hear Ava pulling up.

Ava and Max pile out of their rental car and I have to stifle an actual gasp, because…

“What is she wearing ?” Emma mutters.

Don’t get me wrong, if anyone is going to pull off a fitted pinstripe two-piece suit tailored to the gods, it’s Ava Garcia-Greene. But she appears even more out of place than she was yesterday in her cashmere sweater and pencil skirt.

If I had to guess, Ava’s mostly been assigned photoshoots for big glossy magazines lauding her winning combination of youth and power. It’s hard to imagine her sitting for a cozy Christmas card, which is exactly why I've orchestrated today the way I have.

Strutting across the fresh powder of snow in six-inch stilettos and Beetlejuice’s wardrobe, she waves at me cheerily.

“Morning!”

I’m instantly thrown by her peppiness. It almost makes me resist calling out her stuffy corporate attire, but today is about being authentic, right?

“This is what you’re wearing to spread holiday cheer?”

She straightens out her jacket. “Holiday cheer? I’m here for headshots.”

I open The Photo Truck door for her, and as she slips past, a whiff of her perfume–a woody, complex scent–momentarily envelops me. I find myself wishing for another moment to savor it, to decipher the familiar notes it stirs in my memory.

Ava gawks at the over-the-top set dressing. “What is all this about?”

“I’ve got you booked for a Christmas card session, and unfortunately we can’t accommodate last-minute changes. It messes with our bottom line. I’m sure you understand.”

Ava scoffs. “I paid handsomely enough for this shoot to be whatever I want it to be.”

“You actually paid the going rate for canceling another client’s session, which is a thing The Photo Truck has never done once before in its decades of operation.”

I catch Emma and Max exchanging a look. I’m glad our bickering is entertaining to someone.

To my surprise, Ava picks up a rainbow Santa hat from one of the prop bins and turns around, mugging for the camera that’s not yet there to capture her smize.

“Happy? ”

I kind of am. Seeing her in a goofy hat, I can almost picture a younger Ava for a split second, unburdened by public relations and dry cleaning. But I won’t be copping to that.

“Not particularly.”

Ava squints at me. “I’m not picking up on the people skills I’ve been hearing so much about.”

I relent a little. “Listen, you want to experience what I do for my clients. I want to take your Christmas card photo because that’s what this truck was built on. This business put down roots in Harmony Springs because the queer people here needed what my dad was offering: a space to form new traditions during a holiday that had previously been a strained time for many of them.”

For once, Ava doesn’t snit back at me. “Fine. So what now? You lead, I follow.”

I’m momentarily speechless. “Seriously? I mean, great. Yes. Okay!” She’s enjoying watching me stumble. Pull it together, Jo. “Well, a good Christmas card is cozy, like how people want to feel this time of year. So this–” I gesture at her starched suit, “is not going to put the recipients of your cards at ease.”

Ava bites her lip. “I’m not really an athleisure gal, Jo. I have my work clothes and my workout clothes.” She mulls for a second. “And I sleep naked, so I don’t own pajamas.”

My heart thuds loudly. Did she seriously just throw that out there? Do not picture her naked in bed, do not picture her aquamarine eyes blinking up at you from a pillow, do not picture–

Do. Not. Picture.

“Thank you for enlightening us. Um.” Wow. I have completely forgotten what the original game plan was, much less my own middle name. “Harriette.”

She blinks at me. “What?”

Oh my god, my middle name is Harriette. What am I doing? “We have a group errand to run and only half of us have a car that is not a photo studio, so… Max? Can I give you directions to where we’re going?”

If Max has clocked all of the mental chaos currently brewing beneath my surface, they don’t acknowledge it. “Let’s hit the road, glam squad.”

The bustling Harmony Springs Mall is decked out to the nines for Christmas. Like the majority of business institutions in this town, it is much more than a shopping center. Alongside clothing stores, soft pretzel kiosks, and a quintessential faux-marble fountain from the 1980s, the mall's expansive atrium doubles as the town’s premier event space. School choir concerts, community theater musicals, drag queen story hour, and the annual Thanksgiving town banquet–free and sponsored by the city’s endowment–all take place right here. As such, the walls of the mall are home to countless framed photographs of the community events that have been hosted there.

Ava is taking it in with a bemused expression. She nudges Max’s arm. “Toto, we are so not at the Grove anymore.”

I've observed a closeness between her and Max that transcends the typical relationship you’d expect between a bazillionaire CEO and her executive assistant. It doesn't strike me as romantic intimacy, rather it reminds me of my dynamic with Emma, which I never could have initially predicted.

Emma bounds over to the wall beside a kids’ toy store. “Ava! Max! You gotta see this.”

I already know what awaits us: eight-year-old Jo, dressed as all three wise men in the school nativity play.

Ava actually grins , flashing perfect white teeth (of course) that I haven’t seen yet. She leans in. “Jo, are those shaved My Size Barbie heads on your shoulders?”

I snort. “Good eye. ”

“How’d you land that role?” Max asks me.

“The other two wise men got the flu that year,” I explain.

Something wistful drifts across Max’s face. “And no one gave you shit for being a girl playing a wise man? Or three?”

“It was standard in school that casting was gender-blind. The superintendent felt it kept things fair and equitable. Nobody got boxed into playing any specific gender.”

“That’s nice.” Max’s voice sounds hoarse and they turn away momentarily.

There’s a subtle movement in my periphery and I see Ava place her hand reassuringly on Max’s shoulder before turning to me. Her eyes meet mine, and I understand we need to move the show along so that Max can take a minute.

“Glam squad?” I address our crew. “We’ve got a Christmas CEO to outfit.”

Emma salutes me. “Where to first, boss?”

Now it’s my turn to grin. “There’s only one answer.”

“Hurry up,” Ava calls back to us from three storefronts ahead. The woman could power walk through a mall with the best of them.

“Does she always do this?” Emma pants.

“Yeee-up,” says Max.

“Hey! I heard that,” Ava shouts, now walking backwards.

“Where’s the lie?” they laugh.

“Now you’re trying to make us feel inferior,” I yell. “How do you keep up with her?”

“I ask myself that every day.”

I’d like to do the same.

Nope–no. I exile the thought from my brain as I see Ava about to miss our turn. “We’re here!”

She spins around and I can almost hear her surprise as we enter what I consider the inner sanctum of the Harmony Springs Mall: Murray’s Mistletoe *M*Porium.

We catch up to her, now standing in awe. “Is this… what I think it is?” she asks me.

“Do you think it’s a year-round, multi-level Christmas sweater emporium?”

“Year-round?”

“I’ve been telling you–this town has a Christmas spirit that thrives even in the heat of July.” I say. “Murray’s even stocks SPF 50 Christmas rashguards for watersports.”

Ava throws up her hands in surrender. “I’ve never denied that certain market insights can only be gained on the ground.”

A squeaky unmistakable voice pipes up from behind a rack of Chappell Roan ‘She’s got a sleigh’ hand-knit cardigans.

“Market insights? You’re not with the IRS, are you?” a nervous Murray Sanderson pokes his head out to peer at Ava. “You look familiar… we already got audited last year!”

Max jumps in. “This is Ava Garcia-Greene.” Off of Murray’s blank face–“The CEO of Gramsta?” I’m gonna guess Murray hasn’t even joined Facebook yet. “Well, she’s not the IRS.”

Murray visibly relaxes. “Nothing to hide! But you hafta say you’re with the IRS if someone asks.”

Ava’s brow furrows. “I’m not sure that’s–”

Murray turns to me. “What can I help you with today, Jojo sweetheart?”

It’s not an exaggeration to say I’ve gotten at least five Murray’s sweaters a year since I was in utero.

“We’ve got a Christmas photoshoot today with Ava here, who has definite narc energy but is not–as far as I know–involved with any federal agencies,” I tell him.

Murray lets loose a wheezing yelp of laughter. “A narc! Imagine!” He gathers himself. “What do you look for in a holiday sweater, dear? We’ve got every section imaginable. Irony, Pop Culture, Dad Puns, Queer Niche, LED, sustainable knits… and my husband Arnold’s annual Hanukkah collection.”

Ava chews her lip. “Um. I’m not sure I’ve ever shopped for a Christmas sweater before?” She looks like she just admitted to a crime, and perhaps she’s not wrong in recognizing how foreign her life experience is to this veteran Harmony Springser. But for all his tax neuroses, Murray is a mensch at heart, like Arnold always says. He’s not one to let anybody feel less-than for not being acquainted with his level of Christmas spirit.

He beams at Ava and I watch her apprehension melt away. “Lucky you! Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, doll.”

And with that, we spend the next hour following Murray from section to section, piling pullovers, crewnecks, and other holiday knits into a massive shopping cart pushed by the ever-dutiful Emma. Eventually, we roll up to the dressing rooms.

Murray clasps his hands excitedly. “I’ve got to fold some rainbow stockings but give me a holler if you need me to weigh in!”

Before she can stop him, Murray wraps Ava in a bear hug–or maybe it’s a cub hug when he comes up to her shoulder? Either way, I watch her stiffen, then relax into it, giving him a tentative pat atop his shiny bald head.

Murray skitters off, and Ava steps into her dressing room, shutting the door firmly behind her. Emma, Max, and I stand together in silence for at least five minutes. I think each of us fears breaking the spell of Ava’s agreeability by saying the wrong thing, but after another five minutes pass, Max knocks gently on the door.

“Aves?”

There’s a muffled reply from inside.

Then the lock quietly clicks open.

Max slowly opens the door, revealing Ava deeply tangled in a heavily tasseled Christmas tree sweater .

“Imsthguckspehfa.”

Max whistles. “Oh goodness, okay, stay right there, I’ve got this.” They go to work on their straitjacketed boss, untwisting strands of alpaca yarn from her mussed-up glossy hair.

Let the record show, I am watching this Marx Brothers slapstick comedy unfold very respectfully. It is through no lascivious fault of my own that as Max disentangles the final tassel and begins to lift the cursed sweater off of her, I catch a glimpse of a disturbingly defined ab sculpted into the sliver of stomach that flashes my way. I avert my eyes… turning them head-on into Emma’s knowing gaze. She doesn’t say anything, just smirks. Dammit.

“Crisis averted,” Ava announces sheepishly. She took her heels off in the dressing room, so she’s even shorter than usual beside me. I peer down at the top of her hair, still askew from the sweater debacle.

“Find any pieces that didn’t try to off you?” I ask.

She rummages through her pile and pulls out a dark green pullover embroidered with a rainbow reindeer clutching a wad of cash, beneath the phrase “Make It Rein.”

“I don’t hate this one,” she offers.

I'm caught between commenting on the distinctly gay vibe of that reindeer and making a snarky remark about how the CEO picked the most capitalist sweater in the entire emporium. But I don’t get a chance to voice either, because Emma cuts in.

“It’s perfect, Ava. Still you, but… soft, too.”

Emma’s observation would bother me, but it seems to roll off of Ava. “Can you help me put the rest of the sweaters in the cart?”

“Oh, Murray will put them back,” I inform her, but she waves me off and begins walking to the register.

Max and Emma follow her with the loaded cart, and Murray comes bounding up to the checkout.

“Did you find what you needed?” he asks, taking Ava’s card .

“Totally. Can you pack this separate from the rest?” She hands over the money-grubbing reindeer.

“Course!”

I watch in confusion. “I thought you only liked the one. You’re buying all of it?”

“I assume Harmony Springs has a women’s shelter or something I can donate to?”

“Oh. I–yeah, of course. Emma’s mom actually volunteers there.”

Emma brightens. “I can take your donations over after work!”

Ava signs her name on the receipt. “Perfect.”

Murray smiles at Ava with a newfound admiration. “For someone who’s never owned a Christmas sweater, you’ve got Christmas spirit to spare.”

Ava shakes her head. “I’ve got more to spare in general. It’s not a big deal.”

Murray frowns. “You can be humble, but you should realize that selflessness is a rare quality, no matter your net worth.”

Ava’s discomfort is palpable. “Merry Christmas, Murray. Thanks for all your help today.”

“Take care, darling.”

And with that, we head back into the labyrinth of the mall, arms weighed down by shopping bags and minds burdened by a disquieting suspicion that there might be more to Ava Garcia-Greene than meets the eye.

We’re almost to the food court when I tune out of Max and Emma’s heated debate on Christmas and capitalism long enough to realize we’ve lost Ava.

“Hey, hold up.”

We begin to retrace our steps, rounding a corner to find Ava standing in front of the window display at Jingle Belle of the Ball, fixated on the drapey red velvet gown at the forefront. She notices we’ve joined her and glances at me.

“It’s probably… too stuffy for a Christmas card?” she asks hesitantly.

“Stuffy is not the word I’d use,” I say. She’s still quiet, so I add, “If it speaks to you, you should try it on.”

“Hm.” And with that, she strides into the boutique.

We follow her inside. The saleswoman, Shirley, unpins the dress from the mannequin and guides Ava to a curtained-off area in the back to try it on.

Emma gestures for Max to join her at a display featuring her favorite local jewelry designer, leaving me alone at the back when Ava pokes her head out. She scans the room, searching for anyone but me, but eventually relents.

"Can you zip me up?" she asks.

I approach the curtain, and Ava turns her back to me. I'm still mentally kicking myself for stealing a glance at her six-pack back at Murray’s. Determined not to stare this time, I reach for the zipper, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. It backfires. A strand of her hair gets caught because I’m not paying close enough attention.

"Ow ow ow," she winces, tilting her head back.

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry." I pinch the hair while wiggling the zipper back down.

By necessity, I allow my eyes to focus on the task at hand. I begin to carefully disentangle each strand, and my fingers accidentally brush against her. Ava shivers. I watch as delicate goosebumps bloom across the bare skin of her back, trying to keep my breathing in check as my heart gallops.

As I free the final strand, I catch a glimpse of us standing together in the mirror. We look more familiar with one another than we actually are, like a convincing stock photo of an attractive couple.

“Are we good?” Ava breaks my reverie .

“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly.

She reaches back to sweep her hair away so I can zip her up. Her fingers brush against mine and there’s a zap of electricity. I swear her touch lingers for a moment, and I wonder if she felt it too.

I watch the elegant column of her spine disappear as I rezip the dress.

“All done,” I murmur, then take a step back… walking right into Max. 0/10 spatial awareness, Jo. Emma is on the other side of them, and the three of us watch in unison as Ava turns to face us in her gown.

The dress drinks up every single curve, the rich deep burgundy red contrasting with Ava’s coloring perfectly. Oh, my.

She smoothes the front down. “Is it okay?”

Emma and Max’s eyes are trained on me, awaiting my answer. Be normal, be normal, be normal.

“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat, “It’s okay.”

Emma elbows me hard, then addresses Ava. “She means it’s stunning. Very you, very Christmas.”

I’m grateful for the save until I notice Emma and Max exchange their own private look of amusement. I’m not loving the alliance brewing in the peanut gallery today, but there’s not much I can do about that with Ava staring me down.

Ava nods at Emma's reassurance, yet her gaze lingers on me a moment longer, as if she's piecing together a puzzle in her mind. If she has more to say, she keeps it to herself. For that, I’m thankful, because I’m at a loss for how to explain my flustered state. It’s tough to remember she's the opposition when she’s effortlessly cracked my lesbian attraction nuclear codes.

Max and I pile two trays with every Christmas treat imaginable at the food court while Ava and Emma lay claim to a table for the four of us and our many shopping bags. As I shake extra cinnamon sugar over an elephant ear, Max speaks softly.

“She might not realize it, but this is exactly what she’s needed for a long time.”

I’m surprised. “Oh yeah?”

They give me a crooked smile. “I’ll never admit to having said this, but she lives in a bubble. A corporate CEO snow globe of her own making. It’s safe in there, to some degree, but it also keeps the world out.”

I appreciate their unexpected candor. “My lips are sealed.”

Max uncaps Ava’s coffee order. “Wrong creamer. Be right back.”

I balance our trays and make my way over to where Ava and Emma are deep in conversation, slowing as I approach. I’m not being a snoop, I’m doing… what did she call it? On-the-ground market research.

“You’re cooler than I thought you’d be,” Emma is saying.

Ava shakes her head. “Not hard when you’re routinely decimated in the press like me.”

“But you gotta admit, you stoke the controversies, too,” Emma points out.

“Being a female CEO is no walk in the park, especially when you’re constantly trying to push for innovation that challenges the status quo.”

Emma nods. “I can respect that.”

“Besides, if I don’t stand up for myself, who will?”

I can feel myself starting to empathize with Ava’s need for a tough exterior, so I decide it’s time to wrap up my focus group of one. I step up to the table and begin to lay out our Christmas carbohydrate feast.

Ava holds her stomach. “I’m gonna be bloated in my Christmas card!”

“Jo’s camera angles are very forgiving,” Emma reassures her.

I’d like to point out Ava’s abs are sure to demolish whatever effect our fried banquet would have on any regularly-built human, but instead I tell her, “There’s nothing to forgive, trust me.”

Perhaps it’s the fluorescent Christmas lights strung across the food court playing tricks on me, but I swear my comment causes her pretty cheeks to pinken. I file the moment away. For market research, of course.