“I’m serious,” Connor says. It is rare enough for him to be serious with me that he has to point it out. “This might be the last Christmas where Riley believes in Santa. And if I try to be Santa, she’ll know. It has to be you. I don’t have anyone else.”

“What about Lana?” I ask, referring to the older of his younger sisters.

He shakes his head. “There’s no way. There’s just no way.”

This does not surprise me. Lana’s demeanor is more claws out than Claus on. She is only twelve, and I am scared of her.

“Pweeeeeeeeeeeeease,” Connor cajoles.

I tell him I can’t believe he’s resorting to his cute voice. As if I’m more likely to make a fool of myself if he’s making a fool of himself.

“The suit won’t even need to be altered!” he promises.

This is, of course, what I am afraid of.

*   *   *

Christmas Eve for me has always been about my family figuring out which movies we’re going to see the next day. (The way we deliberate, I think it’s easier to choose a Pope.) Once that’s done, we retreat to our separate corners to do our separate things.

Nobody in my family is particularly religious, but there’s still no way I’m letting them see me leave the house in a Santa costume. Instead I sneak out a little before midnight and attempt to change in the backseat of my car. Because it is a two-door Accord, this requires some maneuvering on my part. Any casual passerby looking into the window would think I was either strangling Santa or making out with him. The pants and my jeans don’t get along, so I have to strip down to my boxers, then become Santa below the belt. I had thought it would feel like pajamas, but instead it’s like I’m wearing a discarded curtain.

And that’s not even taking into account the white fur. It occurs to me now to wonder where, exactly, this fur is supposed to have come from, if Santa spends so much time at the North Pole. Perhaps it’s him, not global warming, that’s dooming the polar bears. It’s a thought. Not much of one, but it’s all I can muster at this hour, in the backseat of this car.

As I’m strapping on my belly and putting on my coat, Connor is meant to be asleep, safe in his dreams. He offered to stay up, but I thought that would be too risky—if we got caught, not only would we be in trouble, but the gig would be up with Riley. Lana and his mother are supposed to be asleep, too—I don’t think they have any idea I’m coming, and only have a vague idea of who I am in the first place. It’s Riley who’s supposed to be awake—if not right at this moment, then when I appear in her living room. This is all for her six-year-old eyes to take in. I wouldn’t be doing it otherwise.

I also have a gift of my own to deliver—a wrapped box for Connor, which I am trying desperately not to smash as I grasp in the dark for my boots and my beard. It’s the first Christmas since we started dating, and I spent way too much time thinking about what to get him. He says presents aren’t important, but I think they are—not because of how much they cost, but for the opportunity they provide to say I understand you. Plus, there was the risk factor: When I ordered the present three weeks ago, there was always the slim chance we wouldn’t make it to Christmas. But that hasn’t happened. We’ve made it.

Once I’m dressed, I find it near impossible to slide into the front seat with any ease. I must manipulate both the seat and the steering wheel in order to lever my Santatude into the driver’s seat. Suddenly, I understand the appeal of an open sled.

I have only been to Connor’s house a few times, and most of those were before we started dating. His mother mostly knows me as one of a group of friends, a body on the couch or a face over a bowl of chips, because Connor and I were very much part of a six before we decided to become a two. Every now and then, Riley would visit our adolescent playground, steal some of our snacks, flirt with whoever would pay attention to her. Lana, meanwhile, would stay in her room and blast her music loud enough to haunt any sound we were trying to make.

I feel strange pulling up the driveway in a Santa suit, so I park at the curb, in front of the house next door. I can only imagine what I must look like as I step out of the car—the street is eerily quiet, its own midnight mass. Instead of feeling like a roly-poly emissary of cheer and good will, I picture myself as the killer from a Z-grade horror movie—Santa’s Slay Ride!—about to wreak havoc on some upstanding citizens and a few underintelligent, underdressed youth. Then I realize I’ve left Connor’s key in my jeans, so I have to go back and fetch it—making myself look like an incompetent serial killer.

Plus, the beard itches.

*   *   *

Even though we’re Jewish, my parents insisted at first that Santa did, in fact, exist. He just never came to our house. The way they presented it, it was a time-management issue.

“He can only go to so many houses in one night,” they told me. “So he skips over the boys and girls who already had eight days of Hanukkah. But you can wave to him as he flies past, if you want.”

This meant that at a young age I would stay up late on Christmas Eve to wave to Santa before he visited our neighbors’ house. These neighbors, who had a boy my age, were the real reason I wasn’t told the truth about Santa—my parents assumed that I would share my myth-busting knowledge the minute I learned it, which was not an incorrect assumption. I had already ruined the Easter bunny for most of my friends—while a fat man flying around the world to give presents seemed rational to me, the idea of a bunny handing out eggs just seemed stupid.

In the end, it was the neighbor boy who gave me the information I needed to expose the truth. Our conversation went something like this:

Him: “Santa’s other name is Saint Nick.”

Me: “Saint Nick Claus?”

Him: “No. Just Saint Nick. For Saint Nicholas.”

Me: “But aren’t all saints dead? Like, if Santa Claus is a saint, doesn’t that mean he’s dead?”

I could see the truth hitting him. Then he burst into tears.

*   *   *

I have been given very explicit instructions, as if this is some one-man production of Ocean’s Eleven. The presents have already been placed under the tree, and the stockings have already been stuffed, and I am supposed to undo this to some degree, then jostle Riley’s doorframe so she wakes up, sneaks out, and sees me put everything in place. I have made Connor assure me at least a half dozen times that his mom doesn’t keep a firearm under her bed. He swears that she does not, and that she will be so tranq’d up that I could ride a full coterie of reindeer through her bedroom and she still wouldn’t wake up. I fear this has implications for fire safety, but keep that fear to myself.

I want Connor to be awake. I want him to be with me in his house. It’s strange to tiptoe through the kitchen without him. It’s strange to be hearing the shelter silence of the hallway without having his breathing there as well. I know his presence would ruin the charade, but I want him whispering from the wings, my own yuletide Cyrano.

Instead I have pictures of him watching over me, pictures of him and his sisters, with an occasional cameo by their mom. A photographic growth chart as I get closer to the living room. I am waiting for one of the photos to start laughing at me—the left leg of my pants keeps getting caught beneath my boot. I fear a rip at any time.

The room is lit by the tree, and the tree is lit by strings of colored lights. There’s a star at the top, and I think that, yes, this is how it’s supposed to be—the point of a Christmas tree is to look like all the other Christmas trees, but still be a little bit your own. There aren’t as many presents underneath as I imagined there would be—I have to remind myself that we aren’t dealing with Von Trapps here—there are only four people in this house. And there’s only one day of Christmas, not eight.