Exes and Ho Ho Ho's

by Lacey Black

  “Proceed.”

  “The state recommends thirty hours of community service,” I start before being interrupted by the man to my left.

  “What?!”

  Ignoring his outburst, I continue. “For the next five Saturdays, Mr. Frost will serve as Santa Claus at the Springfield Youth Community Center for five hours per day, from now until Christmas, as well as five hours on Christmas Eve.”

  “Hell no!”

  “Mr. Frost, would you like to be held in contempt?”

  “The State feels this punishment fits the crime perfectly, your honor. Mr. Frost hates Christmas, but more than that,” I say, glancing at the man standing across the aisle, “he hates children.”

  And that is what I like to call retribution.

  Game. Set. Match.

  Chapter Three

  You Want Me To Wear What?

  Brandon

  I have no words. I’m physically unable to speak at the moment as I stare at the only woman I’ve ever loved and she uses the biggest guns she possesses to wield my punishment. Five years hasn’t diminished the anger and hurt still very evident in those hypnotic blue eyes. They’ve always been her best feature, not quite as deep as the ocean or as brilliant as a cloudless sky. Just a unique shade of sapphire that I’ve never seen again.

  Now those eyes that had always reflected so much love and adoration only shine with so much pain.

  And I did that.

  “That’s an interesting choice of punishment, Miss Winters,” Judge Ratchet says with a smile. But it isn’t a friendly smile. She glances my way before returning her gaze to Noel. “I like it. The court agrees to the terms of the state’s offer.”

  “And if I don’t?” I ask, unable to stop talking.

  “Then the court will suggest jail time. Striking a peace officer is a serious offense, Mr. Frost. But I’m sure you already know that.” Again, the old woman gives me a smirk, reminding me to always verify the identity of the women I sleep with to ensure they’re not the daughter of the one judge who despises me with a passion.

  It’s as if all of my energy just drains from my body. I feel defeated, but resolved to accept my punishment. Playing Santa for some snot-nosed kids couldn’t be so bad, could it? Because the alternative – jail time – sounds a hell of a lot worse.

  I can do this.

  I was in the top five percent in my graduating class in law school. At twenty-two I ran the Chicago Marathon for the first time and clocked a personal best time. I once went on a date with Miley Cyrus to a charity event back when she was riding wrecking balls and shaving her head. So if I can do all of that shit, I can surely play the fat, jolly man in a red suit and itchy beard for a few hours, right?

  * * *

  I pull my Mercedes into the first parking spot I can find. Even though every bone in my body is telling me to be fashionably late (or not to show up at all), I don’t want to give Cruella and her evil prosecuting attorney minion any leverage they need to revoke the terms of this arrangement. And while I’m not the least bit happy about it, the alternative isn’t something I plan to do in this lifetime, so I might as well suck it up and deal with the…kids.

  Groaning, I glance in the rearview mirror. My eyes are slightly bloodshot and the bags beneath them are big enough to look like suitcases. I blame Noel for that. She invaded my thoughts and eventually my dreams last night, even when I didn’t want her to. But after seeing her as the fierce prosecutor I always knew she’d become, there was no way I could get her out of my head. She’s taken up residence there, and unless something happens, I don’t see myself evicting her from my brain anytime soon.

  Same thing happened in college. After the breakup, for months, I saw her everywhere. In every class (even though we only had one together), in the store, in the library. Hell, I even saw her in the courtroom when I was shadowing a well-known defense attorney in Chicago. But it was never her, just some poor blonde replica of the woman I loved and lost.

  I can say it took me months to get over her, but that’d be a lie. It look me years.

  If I ever really did…

  And now here I am, getting ready to step inside the community center to play Santa. Frickin’ Santa Claus, of all things. And she’s the reason why. She knew just where to strike that would inflict the most pain and cause the most damage. She knew because she knew me. Better than anyone.

  Since our breakup, I’ve never let another woman get remotely close. In my bed, sure, but never anywhere near my heart. Love ‘em and leave ‘em. Hit it and quit it. Hump and dump. That’s my style, and for five years that’s worked well for me.

  And I’m the best option for portraying Santa to a bunch of kids?

  The sad thing is that now I can’t picture anyone in my bed but her. That’s the real reason I couldn’t sleep last night. The thought of calling up any one of the numbers I have in my phone just made me nauseous. Instead, I pictured my hands tangled in soft blonde curls and the most hypnotic blue eyes staring up at me. I was hard and throbbing until there was nothing to do but take care of the problem. And even after a quick solo performance in the shower, it wasn’t enough to wipe away the images of her naked in my bed.

  I’ve been a walking hard-on ever since.

  Very un-Santa like.

  Hey, kids! Come on over and sit on Santa’s lap. What’s that? Oh, that’s just the baseball bat I keep in my pants. Don’t mind me.

  Christ, why is this happening to me?

  Getting out of the car, I head towards the front of the building. It’s a brisk fifty degrees today and it’s as gloomy as my mood. It must be symbolic. I open the glass door and am instantly assaulted by the sounds of screaming kids. Dozens of kids. Hundreds of kids. Hell, probably even thousands of them. The only good thing about it is it’s killed the boner I had from my earlier thoughts of Noel.

  We’ll chalk that one up on the plus side.

  “We Wish You A Merry Christmas” is piping through speakers I don’t see as I drudge down the hall towards the chaos. A middle aged woman with tan pants and a big fluffy red and green sweater with a big Christmas tree and some sort of weird gold tinsel weaved through it stands by the door. What is it with these sweaters? They’re ugly as hell!

  “Are you Brandon?” she asks, her pink painted lips smiling widely.

  “I am.”

  “I’m Sheila. We’re so glad you’re here! Even though Santa doesn’t arrive for fifteen minutes, there are several families already here and ready for a visit.”

  “Great,” I mumble sarcastically.

  “Isn’t it?” she exclaims, mistaking my comment for enthusiasm. “Anyway, you’re scheduled for the next five Saturdays from ten until three. The Santa Lunch is at noon and story time at two.”

  “Wait. Story time?” I must have heard her incorrectly.

  “Sure. Each day at two, Santa and Mrs. Claus read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas to the kids,” she says with glee. Apparently Sheila’s been hittin’ the eggnog a little too hard.

  Rubbing my suddenly throbbing temple, I ask, “And this lunch?”

  “Oh, it’s an open house for supporters of the program to come and eat lunch with the kids, play games, and take photos with Santa.”

  Santa. That’s me.

  “This sounds so…awesome.”

  “Doesn’t it?!” Sheila exclaims once more. “The kids always look forward to this every year. The program continues to thrive, which is why we’ve added programs like the story time this year. For the last several years, we’ve only hosted the meet and greet with Santa and Mrs. Claus, but we’ve seen an influx of financial support, as well as area families who are taking advantage of the services and programs offered through the community center that we’ve been able to increase our efforts during the holidays.”

  Kill me now.

  “Oh! And of course, there’s the extra Christmas Eve event. Movie with Santa and Mrs. Claus will start at one o’clock, and all of the children a
re invited to the auditorium to watch the Christmas movie with you. We’ll serve cookies and milk for all the kids, and they’ll all leave with a final gift from Santa.”

  “Thrilling,” I mumble, glancing around at the colorful turkeys made out of construction paper and traced from little hands. The sight of those little hands actually makes me pause for a moment.

  “Let’s get you outfitted with your new suit,” she says, leading me towards a small office.

  Inside, I stare at the bright red outfit hanging from a rack. My stomach drops to my Italian loafers as I face my doom. Yes, maybe a tad dramatic, but what can I say? I’m not exactly thrilled to be here.

  “The glue is on the table. It takes about thirty seconds to set, but you should be good to go for the entire five-hour shift without having to reapply.”

  “Glue?”

  “You know, for the beard and eyebrows? We have to glue on the fake hair nowadays. Those little stinkers are always tugging at Santa’s beard. We don’t want it to slip down, do we?”

  Yes, maybe we do.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Well, here it is. The padding is in the bin on the floor. We had it dry cleaned after last year’s Santa. He was a sweaty man,” she informs before plastering a big smile on her face. And then she turns her head, making the jingle bells in her ears ring. “I’ll just wait in the hallway. We’ve got seven minutes,” she adds before slipping out the door.

  When I’m left alone, I turn my attention back to the offensive suit. It’s hanging there all merrily, mocking me with its bright colors and jolly disposition.

  “You really fucked yourself this time, Frost,” I mumble as I start to undress.

  Six minutes later, I’m fully dressed in the still smelly fat suit, the Santa outfit, and a beard that itches the fuck out of my face. I can’t believe I have to do this. Out of all the possible punishments in the world, I get stuck with the criers and the overzealous monkeys who only want to use my lap for a jungle gym.

  “Ready?” Sheila asks from the other side of the door.

  Ready? Fuck no, I’m not ready. I should be at my condo right now, getting ready to watch the Fighting Illini on my seventy-inch flat screen HD TV. Instead, I’m balls deep in community service projects, thanks to a certain ADA who hates my guts. And that just brings my focus back on the blonde who stole my heart all those years ago, and is stealing my sanity in the present.

  I can’t believe she did this to me. Kids. Oh, my little hellcat brought out the big guns with this little stunt. It only goes to prove she hasn’t forgotten, and certainly hasn’t forgiven me for my wrongdoings in the past. Instead, she’s using that rage as an accelerant to fuel the fire I thought had long dissipated. But no, that fire is still very much alive and burning, smoldering beneath the surface and giving me a false sense of security. As soon as I turn my back, the fire blazes to life, catching me off guard and sending my entire life up in smoke.

  But there’s no time to think about that right now. At the moment, I have to get my Merry Ho Ho Ho on and entertain kids.

  Merry flippin’ Christmas.

  Chapter Four

  I Hate Him

  Noel

  I can’t stay away.

  Not because I want to see him, mind you.

  Because I want to see him suffer.

  For a man like Brandon, dealing with kids for half the day is the worst kind of torture out there. He’s an only child, and though his mother was a part of his life, she worked her tail off, never married or had more children, so he’s never been around them.

  His father was absent. A big shot, from what I’m told, in the sports world. Brandon never even knew his father’s last name. All he ever told me was that his mom met Kent, a pro ball scout for one of the Chicago teams, who was in town for the weekend. The story goes that they had some steamy weekend love affair, and he left her a few days later to move on to the next city.

  And left a little something behind.

  Brandon.

  She tried to get ahold of him, but her calls and letters were never answered. Brandon always said he didn’t care, that he didn’t need a father, but I could tell that it cut him deeply. His mom was an amazing woman who gave everything she could so that her son could have his dream.

  And then she got sick. It was right there at the end of our time together that her cancer really started to spread. She refused to seek the treatment she needed for fear that it would put too much of a financial strain on Brandon. It ended up taking her about six months after our law school graduation.

  I went to see her one last time before she passed. He doesn’t know, at least I hope he doesn’t. I asked his mom, Cecelia, not to tell him. The pain of the breakup was still too hard, too fresh, and too raw to deal with, but I needed to see her one last time and say my goodbyes. Cecelia Frost had an extraordinary heart, full of love and joy.

  I never went to the funeral. Even though I ached to be there for him during the loss of his mother, it wasn’t my place anymore. I had said my goodbyes to her and was able to spend time laughing and crying with her while she was still able to. It was a special moment that only she and I shared, and I’ve always carried that time with her in my heart and mind.

  How can someone with such a beautiful heart have a son who could say he loves a woman one minute and shred her heart with a cheese grater the next?

  I’ve never been able to figure that one out.

  It’s just after noon and the Santa luncheon is in full swing. For the last hour, I’ve been lurking in the corner, watching Brandon to make sure he’s fulfilling every fine print detail of his probation. So far, I’ve watched one kid scream bloody murder, a pair of twins rip at the beard he must have glued to his face, and one very little girl with blonde pigtails pee on him. That was the highlight of my day.

  Towards the end of the lunch, I notice the sweet woman who’s playing Mrs. Claus get up and practically sprint out of the cafeteria. Concerned that something’s wrong, I slip out the door and make my way towards the closest bathroom. I can hear her retching before I even enter the woman’s restroom.

  Pushing the door open, I slip inside. “Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing a wad of paper towels and wetting them.

  “Uhhhh,” she groans once the vomiting has subsided. After a few minutes, the stall door opens. Mrs. Claus is as white as a ghost and beads of sweat are dotting her forehead and upper lip.

  “Was it something you ate?” I ask, handing her the wet towels.

  She places them on her forehead and leans back against the wall. “I wasn’t feeling well earlier. I think I have the flu.”

  “Oh no,” I tell her. “Why don’t you come out and have a seat in the hallway. I can call someone for you to come and pick you up. You probably shouldn’t be driving in your condition.”

  “My husband. He’s at home,” she groans, taking slow, gingerly steps towards the doorway.

  In the hallway, the afternoon session of kids are starting to arrive in the gymnasium. Keeping my hands on the sick woman, I’m able to flag down Sheila. “Oh no, what’s wrong?” she asks, dropping down to fawn over Mrs. Claus.

  “Sick,” she groans, wiping her forehead once more.

  “I was going to call her husband for a ride.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sheila adds, nodding emphatically.

  “But, I’m supposed to play Mrs. Claus again. What about the kids?”

  “Don’t you worry a second about that, sweetie. We’ll find someone else to finish out your shift, okay? You need to focus on getting healthy,” Sheila says.

  “I’m so upset that I can’t stay. This was my only weekend that I could help,” Mrs. Claus says.

  The husband arrives just a few minutes later, anxious to help get his wife home and resting. We send her off with a small pail. You know, just in case.

  “What are we going to do now?” Sheila asks absently, more to herself than to me.

  “I’m sure you’ll
think of something,” I reply, watching the rest of the kids file into the auditorium. It’s starting to get loud again after all of the kids got lunch and a second wind.

  “Is something wrong?” I hear behind me. It’s that deep, husky voice that I recall from all those years ago. The reaction I have to hearing him is the same as it was then, too. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and a shiver of something I don’t want to identify sweeps through my body.

  “Oh, Brandon! I’m sorry to tell you that Mrs. Claus has the flu. We had to send her home, which means we don’t have you a wife for the rest of today. I could possibly make a call and try to get someone to come volunteer, but I don’t think I can fill the void today on such short notice.”

  “I have an idea,” he says, that grin firmly plastered on his full, kissable lips that are framed by the white beard.

  No. Don’t think about that, Noel.

  “You do?” Sheila and I each ask at the same time. Uneasiness tingles the base of my neck and warms my cheeks. Something tells me I won’t like this.

  “Sure. Noel here loves kids. I think I recall her saying something once about winning the starring role in a high school production of Tony and Tina’s Wedding, so she has the role-playing bit down pat. Noel would make a wonderful Mrs. Claus.” Again, that cocky smirk I used to love is spread wide across his too-handsome face.

  “What?!” I exclaim quietly through my teeth.

  “Noel? You’d do it?” Sheila turns to me with so much hope in her eyes that I almost falter.

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I have…things to do. I’m sure you’ll be able to find another Mrs. Claus on extremely short notice, who’s available on a Saturday afternoon,” I reason, but my point completely loses steam by the time I get to the end of it.

  “Did I tell you that I’d make a handsome donation to the community center if she agrees?” he adds, throwing the final nail in my coffin.

  That’s when I realize he has me firmly by the ornaments (that’s code for by the balls). There’s no way I could back out now. I really only have two options. One, save my dignity and run for the hills, ripping the donation Brandon’s dangling over their heads out of their hands before they even get a hold of it. Two, play Mrs. Claus. And while that option doesn’t seem so bad in a normal situation, I’d have to stand right beside Brandon, eat lunch right beside him, and read to kids next to him. There’d be no escaping the man I’ve done everything in my power, besides hypnosis, to forget.