Page 34 of Make You Mine This Christmas
“I go for a Hail Mary. Looking back, that call may have been the beginning of the end of the plan, even though it would take another six years to fully leave it. I call my grandma. The same one my dad hasn’t spoken to in decades. NYU reached out to me once they saw my name on the LSAT lists, so I knew she still had connections. Turns out, connected is an understatement. The Walkers have a conference room, a lecture hall, and a student lounge in the law school. Grandma agrees to make a call, on one condition.”
“What was it?” Austin asks. His attention hasn’t wavered in the slightest, even when I describe my cowardice in believing in the realness of what we had.
I laugh then. “Well, one of “the girls” at Gram’s DAR chapter had given her the scoop on a little show calledGilmore Girls. Grandma decided to channel her inner Emily Gilmore and required my presence at weekly dinners in exchange for calling in this favor. Too good a deal to pass up, I agreed and left for New York the next day.” It’s my turn to squeeze his hand in apology. He squeezes back, nodding for me to continue.
“Suddenly, the family matriarch I thought had cut us all off is the person I see most outside of law school other than the Starbucks barista on the way to campus. The one thing we don’t talk about is why my dad stopped talking to her, but we talked about anything and everything else. She and grandpa met at NYU Law, you see—a part of the family history my dad conveniently left out. Gramps died before I was born—around the time my dad blew up his relationship with his mom.”
“Did she ever tell you what happened?”
I nod. “She did. I’ll get to that, I promise. So, law school is over, I’m hired by a major firm, living and working in Manhattan, making disgusting amounts of money. By all intents and purposes, the plan has been a rousing success...” I trail off there, thinking about my mental state at the time. The lowest I’ve ever been and hopefully the lowest I’ll ever be.
“But you weren’t happy?” Austin fills in the rest of the sentence. My response is a sad smile.
“Absolutely miserable. Barely eating or sleeping, working fourteen-hour days, having panic attacks in my office, avoiding Grams, because she put my dad on this same plan—what would she say if she saw how much I struggled, how I wasted the faith she had in me.”
“Oh, Brody,” he says, like I’m breaking his heart all over again.
I swallow. “I know. I was pretty lost. But then one day, I have to pull over at a community center to use the bathroom on the way home from a deposition upstate—drinking too much caffeine also didn’t help my anxiety or lack of sleep. On my way to the bathroom, I pass an open door, with a sign out front that says ‘Professional Santa School.’ My instinct was to roll my eyes, but I had to walk past them again to get back to my car. I stopped to listen and realized it was an open-house-orientation-type event. And for the first time in three years, I didn’t think about my time in six-minute increments. I walked into the classroom, sat down, and listened. These guys were legit and put so much passion and investment into their work. But instead of greed, their work was spreading joy. Before I knew it, I had been there the better part of an hour. I had a meeting in thirty minutes and was still forty-five minutes outside of the city. The panic started to come back, so I left without talking to anyone. But luckily, I grabbed one of their cards.
“I drove back to the city in a state—I still don’t remember it very well. But instead of driving to the office, I drove to my grandma’s place on Central Park West. I’d been dodging her calls for months, but she never took me off the approved visitor’s list. She answered the door herself, on her way out to play pickleball, I think. She took one look at my face, opened her arms, and I fell into them.”
My voice cracks at the memory of that breakdown. Austin scoots the rest of the way to me, and tucks his head onto my shoulder, a perfect fit. He wraps his arms around my middle. “Sorry,” he says. “I can give you space, but I thought I might break apart if I couldn’t hug you.”
I press a kiss to the top of his head, and wrap an arm around his shoulders, caressing his arm. “I’ll always take a hug from you.”
“So, you quit being a lawyer to be Santa?” he asks, his words muffled into my neck.
“Not at first,” I say. “First, I quit being a lawyer to get healthy. Grams insisted I move in—said she had the space, and she’s not wrong.” Austin laughs, and the mood lifts somewhat. “I started therapy, got a nutritionist, signed up for yoga classes. I know I’m lucky I had somewhere safe to go, with someone who was willing to share all they had with me to help me get better. I let go of the plan, those 4:00 a.m. gym workouts and limited eating to maintain a body type I thought a corporate lawyer should have. And then, after a few months, yes, I enrolled in Santa school.”
Austin tickles my stomach. “It’s like you were made to play the role. It allows you to be who you are.”
My heart expands so much it might burst. Grandma’s going to crow when I tell her she’s right—it does feel so good to have someone see me for who I am.
“The Santa Squad—what the teachers call themselves—did say I’m a natural. So much of a natural, they said I shouldn’t be working for someone else but should have my pick of gigs. And I’ll admit, my brain did miss planning and strategizing and working toward a goal. I decided to create my own business.”
He sits back up so he can look me in the eye, pulling my legs so they’re tangled with his. Our shoulders rest against one another. “So then the philanthropy part. How did you decide to expand beyond Santa appearances?”
I smile. “Ah, that’s all grandma. I told her about my idea to start a business. I had a decent amount of savings and investments, which were growing well by staying with her. She reminded me of what I thought the first time I saw the Santas. How their passion and energy is directed toward helping others, not toward helping themselves. What would I do to keep that in my business?”
“And so Scott’s Tots was born.” I shove him, and we both laugh.
“It’s called Holidays with Margot, after the inspiration herself. And honestly, she’s the only reason it’s happened and I can keep doing this.”
“I do have to admit, I wondered how being Santa six weeks a year made enough to live the other forty-six weeks.”
“There are a surprising number of random one-offs during the rest of the year. But after we hashed out the idea for the charitable part of the business, she told me what happened with my dad. After my grandpa died, Grams reevaluated a lot of parts of her life. Lots of therapy and reflection of her own. She realized they had pushed my dad incredibly hard, probably too hard. And she did not want him to do the same to me. He took it personally to his core, thought it meant they were disappointed in him when all he’d done was meet their standards and goalposts his entire life. He wouldn’t listen when she said that wasn’t true and cut her off. If anything, he increased the pressure on the plan for me.
“Grandma said she couldn’t get through to him, but I had found the same truth she did. Focusing on what you can do for others, rather than what you can do for yourself, is far more enriching. So, she gave me my inheritance early—a house in Stamford, investments, and liquid assets. Enough so I’d never have to work another day in my life if I didn’t want to, but if anything, it only made me work harder to get the business off the ground, to help as many people as I can. I don’t think I’ve made a business decision with myself as the focus until Blaire called and offered me the chance to come back. To come back to you.”
We sit in silence then, both staring into space. I don’t think I’ve talked this long, all at once, since my last trial. There’s been a lot of self-work and change in the past four years. I’ll give Austin all the time he needs to process.
“Thank you for telling me,” he says, turning his face to mine.
“Thank you for listening.” And for the first time in ten years, I’m the one to bring my lips to meet Austin’s, initiating a kiss, long and slow.
“Not sure how anyone could consider Santa a sexless figure after hearing your story—self-awareness and philanthropy is hot,” he says against my lips, and we laugh into each other’s mouths.
I pull back and run my fingers through his hair. “I’m not sure many people see Santa Brody quite the same way you do.”
