“You can control the weather?” My eyes light up. “Make tornadoes?”
He cuts me a narrow look. “Why would you even think about tornadoes? Why does that occur to you? I wishnicethings would occur to you.”
“I don’t.”
Hall snaps back to his list. Somewhere in the background,Perry Como begins to sing:Ohhh, there’s no place like hooome for the holidaaayyys.The melody seems to be emanating from the window itself. “Build a fort. Feed some birds! Throw a party. Do a one-thousand-piece puzzle. More birds! Repair your relationships with your family.”
I snap to attention. “What?”
“Make a time capsule. Watch every Christmas movie. Drink hot cocoa until we’re sick. Drink hot cocoa in front of birds. Bake cookies.”
“Some of these sound unnecessary. Like the family part, and baking cookies. Why do we need to bake cookies if we can simply conjure some?”
He reels back in offense. “Baking cookies is a tenet of the season.”
“How about,” I counter, ripping the top sheet from his legal pad and tearing it into ribbons, “tomorrow we conjure up that green dinosaur fromToy Story, life-sized, except Athena’s the only one who can see and hear it. Then we watch her freak out.”
Hall reassembles the torn pieces of his itinerary, smoothing them back into their prior arrangement. “Bettie.”
“Deadpool. Let’s put Deadpool in the dining room, trying to engage whoever passes by in a game of charades. Athena’s the only one who can’t see him.”
He jams a hand into his hair, tugging slightly. “We can’t do that.”
What a spoilsport. “Because you’re so set on doing Christmas stuff?”
“No, because Deadpool isn’t public domain. And we’re not doing Christmas stuff, we’re doing holiday stuff.” He telekinetically opens the closet door and shoves it full of the presents we left in the red pickup, then shuts it. “I’m theHolidaySpirit.”
“Looking pretty Christmassy in here to me.” I spread myhands at the decorations slowly eating the guest room: He’s got a real thing for red vintage pickup trucks with felled evergreen trees in the cab. Wall hangings,fresh cut from the farmembroidered pillowcases. Every time I blink, the collection grows.
“Sixty-five percent of my matter has been trapped inside a ceramic gingerbread house cookie jar in the Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe in Disney World since 1996,” he tells me. “Therefore, I’ve been disproportionately exposed to this particular holiday, helpless to resist absorbing its traditions. But only the secular ones, as is my preference. Especially Valentine’s Day—I simplyadoreValentine’s Day, because its atmosphere is so nice with all the love and love-declaring and lacy Cupid decorations. Always wished I could physically participate in it, holding one of those bouquets of mixed flowers from the grocery store, and be somebody’s secret admirer. Or have a secret admirer of my own, I haven’t decided which would be better.”
I stare at him, a slow grin unfurling. “A secret admirer, huh?”
He blushes. “Yeah, but I mean. I’ve never.” Turns away. “I’ve never had real feelings for anyone before, but I’d love to experience it.”
“You’ve never had a crush? No warm, jittery, googly-eyed Hall with cancan dancers in his nervous system?”
“Nope. Never had the opportunity. I was too preoccupied with doing my job, and it would’ve been fruitless, anyway, since I couldn’t interact with others.”
“Well, if you do get the chance to develop a crush, good luck to you. They’re a pain.”
He considers this. “I hope I do, pain or not. And, I can’t help but notice how pretty you are. So. If I do develop a crush, you might be the first to find out.”
It takes a lot to surprise me. But I gasp. My cheeks actually heat up. A little sunbeam sprouts from my heart and glitters between my fingers as I point to myself. “You think I’m pretty?”
The oddest sensation slides through me, with tiny cold spots blooming all over. It’s like I’m being haunted in the pressure points of my arms, my legs. Simultaneously, my conscience, which isn’t as much like Jiminy Cricket as it is like Scar fromThe Lion King, sits forward and raises an intrigued eyebrow. Why does this piece of news make Hall ten times cuter? Hearing that he thinks I’m pretty has moved him up in the rankings of Wholesome Men I Would Like to Corrupt, kicking Keanu Reeves out of his long-held spot at the top.
He dips his head in a slow, solemn nod. “Objectively.”
Objectively. It takes some of the wind out of my sails. (But only some. He keeps a breeze wafting at me at all times so that my hair can ruffle majestically.)
He straightens, and I wonder when he changed his clothes—now he’s in pajamas—to such a shiny silver that I can make out the dark outline of my reflection in them. He’s so close that the splash of freckles across the bridge of his nose, wandering up his cheekbones, stands out in sharp relief. Then I notice something else: a thin band of brown around his left pupil, but not the right. Heterochromia. I could’ve sworn it wasn’t like that yesterday.
“I’m a force of merriment and cheer,” he says at length. “A feeling. Specifically for the long, cold, dark parts of the year. My purpose is to be a light. People need extra hope in the winter.”
“True.”
“I’m more of a winter entity than a holiday entity, if you want to get into it, but I came to be known as the Holiday Spirit since somany holidays happen to be clumped together at this time of year. I don’t mind. Most of these celebrations are about joy and togetherness, which are my favorites. I suppose I could’ve evolved into one of the less-Christmassy holiday spirits, like National Pancake Day or National Hug Your Cat Day, but winter-specific fun is my favorite.”
