I look at her expectant face and feel increasingly ridiculous. “Ho ho ho?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
“Okay,” Mads says carefully. “That sounded more like you were coughing up a hairball than spreading Christmas cheer. I thought you said you did theater?”
“I was always the villain. I don’t really do jolly well.”
“It’s fine. We’ll work on it.” She reaches into a box and pulls out what looks like a small electronic device. “Here, try this.”
“What is that?”
“A voice modulator. Actors use them for character work. It’ll make you sound more... Santa-ish.”
“You got me a machine that makes ho-ho-ho sounds?”
“I got you options. Press the button and say something normal.”
I press the button. “This is ridiculous.”
What comes out is my voice, but warmer somehow. Deeper. More... jolly.
“Oh,” Mads breathes. “That’s perfect.”
“Really?”
“Try something else.”
I press the button again.
“Ellen’s going to love this,” Mads tells Mom.
The device transforms my naturally gruff tone into something that sounds genuinely warm and caring. Still me, but the version of me that believes in Christmas magic.
“See? Technology and authenticity can coexist,” she says, beaming.
That’s when disaster strikes.
I’m turning to look at myself in the full-length mirror Mom has propped against her workbench, trying to get used to the complete Santa effect, when my foot catches on a pair of boots we were considering.
I stumble forward, reaching out to steady myself, and my hand finds the first solid thing available.
Which turns out to be Mads.
She wasn’t expecting to suddenly support the full weight of a six-foot-two firefighter in a Santa suit. We both go down in a tangle of red velvet, fake fur, and Christmas accessories.
I land on top of her, face to face, close enough that her breath fans my face. The Santa hat has fallen over one eye, the beard is completely askew, and there’s a jingle bell from somewhere stuck in her hair.
“Well,” she says breathlessly, “this is not how I pictured the Santa suit fitting going.”
“Sorry,” I manage, acutely aware that I should move but somehow frozen by the way she’s looking at me. “I’m not usually this clumsy.”
“It’s the boots,” she says. “Santa boots are surprisingly treacherous.”
We’re still staring at each other. I should definitely move now. Get up, help her up, pretend this isn’t the most intense eye contact I’ve had in years.
Instead, I hear myself saying, “You’ve got a jingle bell in your hair.”
“I’ve got a Santa on top of me. I think the jingle bell is the least of my problems.”
