He’s wearing a camel turtleneck. “Oh, so you get to look normal, but I have to wearthis?” I grumble when I sidle close enough.
Hall smiles down at me. It’s such a genuine, warm smile, the skin around his eyes crinkling, that suddenly I can’t remember why I was annoyed.
“You lookamazing,” he tells me, voice low.
He would think that, since he picked it.
“If I have to wear jingle bells,” I insist, “then so do—”
His sweater is infested with them before I can finish my sentence.
“Why didn’t you make me say the magic words?” My eyes narrow.
“You really only need them when I’m not in total agreement with your wishes. It doesn’t cost me anything to just grant wishes, if I feel like it. But sometimes I make you say the magic words because Mariah Carey is a legend and every time you recite her lyrics, the world becomes a sparklier place.”
I stare at him. He holds my gaze, still beaming.
“You are unreal,” I say.
We’re not the only ones stumbling around in an unfamiliar environment. The local news is all in a tizzy over the unexpected overnight snowfall. It’s the strangest phenomenon: snow has been falling nonstop, but the accumulation never exceeds twelve inches.
“What we’ve got here is a cold front,” Hall informs everyone, turning down the volume of the weatherman on TV. “A level two nor’easter producing heavy preliminary snowfall across parts of northeastern Colorado and southwest Wyoming. There is windmovement, hail, ice pellets, and evaporation in inches. We’re talking full coverage of I-22. Climate impact, et cetera.”
“Interested in meteorology, are we?” Grandma observes dryly, taking his measure.
“Yes, I’ve been teaching myself. I think the weather is fascinating.” Her sarcasm misses its target, and I recognize the exact second that his genuine smile hits: Grandma doesn’t know how to react. Her eyes grow three sizes. His straightforward geniality has taken a whisk to her brain.
“Bettie!” Hall sings, steering me into the kitchen toward a buffet of sugar cookies. There’s got to be over a hundred cookies here. He picks up a frosted poinsettia and shoves it in my mouth. “You need to eat something to get your energy up before we start the gingerbread house competition. I’m not going to tell you how you should construct yours, but I strongly recommend the use of Jolly Ranchers as bricks. Total game changer.”
“It’s too early for me to be any good at construction, Hall.”
“What are you talking about? How are you still tired? I’ve been awake since four.”
I skirt a glance around the room. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“Doesn’t it look so much better? Your mom walked in on me making candles, and my hands were covered in red wax. She screamed. I can’t believe it didn’t wake you up. Then I made cinnamon rolls for everyone and invited your dad to use one of my earbuds so that we could listen toCeltic Christmas Podcasttogether.” His eyes darken. “He declined. Your father is in dreadful need of holiday spirit. He’s a four point one.”
My focus slides past him, to my father glowering mutinously in the doorway. He’s wearing a Santa hat on his head, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t put it there.
“You should probably leave Dad alone. He’s not the kind of guy who shares earbuds. Or listens to podcasts.”
Hall’s mouth thins, looking drawn. “Maybe I should sing to him?”
“Please don’t.”
My phone keeps buzzing with notifications, which I’m not going to check here in public because there are too many busybodies. “I need a minute.Don’tsing to my dad.” I’m trying to impress him and make him regret all of his offenses against me, such as not letting MTV film in our house for my super-sweet sixteenth birthday. Also, for allowing me to be named after his mother-in-law.
As I slip past Dad, he seizes my sleeve.
“Where did you meet your boyfriend?” he whispers. “How long have you two been together? Something isoffabout him.”
Athena and her husband are watching, tittering like two nosy old crones. The glue in their relationship is pettily judging everyone else’s relationships to feel superior. “Fiancé, not boyfriend,” I correct him, then hurry away.
I fish my phone out of my pocket, closing the door to the screened-in back porch behind me. I haven’t posted anything on Instagram in a few days, which is the longest social media break I’ve ever taken.
I’m being tagged in stories from my followers, all screenshotting Lucas Dormer’s latest post.
My arms are going tingly, blood pooling to my forehead, my ears, where my heartbeat rushes loud and swift. I lean against a support beam, index finger digging at a perfectly fingertip-sized hole in the screen, and brace myself for impact, as the nameLucas Dormergenerally provokes in me a frothing swell of rage.
