“Listening to music. This is one of my favorite songs in the history of songs. The lyrics remind me of this really amazing book I read before I was corporeal. It was difficult to read physical books, since I didn’t have hands, but I listened to it on audio. What do you think?” He slides his sunglasses over his nose, then up on top of his head. “On or off?”
I glance at his thermos of coffee. “How many shots of espresso do you have in there?”
“What, this?” He holds it up. “None. This is Nestlé Coffee mate creamer. Spiced rum cake.” He drinks it till the last drop, then refills it by tapping its side. “I watched a commercial with two people drinking Nestlé Coffee mate spiced rum cake creamer together, looking quite sated, and I thought, ‘I must have that.’ Highly recommend!”
I’m howling. “You’re supposed to add creamer to coffee, not drink it by itself!”
“You want some?” He proffers it. I push it carefully away. Rocks and lumps of ice crunch under the tires, nothing to see but snow-dusted trees, the drab sky, and, to the right, Teller City nestled in the basin like a toy town. Hall takes pictures of the view on his gold Polaroid.
I glance his way. His sweater’s changing patterns every two seconds, but he doesn’t seem to be aware of it. When we left the house, he was wearing one with cats sitting in gift boxes in outer space, shooting laser beams from their eyes. Before we were out of my grandparents’ driveway, it was Santa’s boots sticking out of a chimney. My attention bats around between his shirts and the road, observing the procession:Get lit, with a Christmas tree.Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animal. Johnny fromSchitt’s Creek, sayingAh, see, the Christmas spirit is all around us.
It’s his ability to be so open, I think, that loosens the lid on my jar of pleasantries that I normally keep airtight. “I’m glad to be spending the day with you, too,” I tell him, then clear my throat. It’s ridiculous that exposing sincere feelings makes me blush. “I hope it’ll be everything you want it to be.”
“This is my first holiday as part of a family. The white elephant gift I contribute must be absolutely perfect—I’ve been waiting to do this for years and years and years.”
I sober right up. I hadn’t thought about that—how much he’d be looking forward to this. He’s been supplying the world with holiday cheer but wasn’t able to participate in it, watching the fruits of his labor from a distance. This is theHoliday Spirit’sfirst real holiday celebration, and out of any family he could be spending it with, he’s getting the Watson-Hughes clan. It’s tragic. I genuinely feel sorry for him.
I inwardly pledge to make it up to Hall somehow. Give back a little bit of that joy he’s trying so hard to imbue in me.
“What else do you want to do, now that you’re corporeal?” I ask.
Hall has a GOALS planner devoted entirely to this. “Go on a roller coaster with a friend. Share a Bloomin’ Onion at Outback Steakhouse. Take a picture pretending to hold up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Go see the Red Sox play. Volunteer at an animal rescue. Solve a crime. Go to adult magic camp again.”
“Again?”
“I went a few times, but that was before I had hands.” He acquires a wistful, faraway look in his eyes as he flexes his hands. We both have a silent moment of appreciation for them—Hall for their functionality and me for their appealing gracefulness, slightly roughened up from all the new use. Furthermore, it strikes methat he haskindhands. Which is nonsensical, hands can’t bekind, but that’s exactly the right word for them anyway. “I need a purple velvet cloak first, so that I look the part. Modern performers gravitate more toward sequins and feathers and flash, but I prefer the classic look—waistcoat, white shirt with a stiff collar, slicked-back hair, and a jewel-toned cloak with a deep hood for extra mystery. I know a million tricks already. I’ve been practicing them with my invisible tendrils of self, waiting for an opportunity to be able to hold cards.”
“Can’t you conjure up a purple velvet cloak?”
“When it comes to street magic, I can’t cheat. It’s against the code.” He returns to his list, which goes on forever. “I want to stand under the stars on a balcony. Play mini golf. Go dancing in Paris. Make a smoothie while blindfolded. See a movie in a theater.”
A lot of these are surprising to me. These are... veryhumandesires. I would have expected a list like (1) Make a snowman. (2) Make another snowman. (3) Turn self into a living snowman.
“I’ll eat a Bloomin’ Onion with you,” I say, shifting in my seat. Snow begins to fall harder, thicker, as he turns toward me. “We can stand under the stars on a balcony.”
“Really?” A luminous grin spreads across his handsome face.
“Sure, why not?” Even though the thought of it makes me jittery for some reason, makes my foot apply more pressure to the gas pedal.Whoa there, I tell myself, slowing down.
“We probably won’t have time for real magic camp,” he says quietly after a while, mostly to himself. What a picture he makes. Honestly. I am sitting next to a magic man with the most devastating cheekbones the world has ever known, soulful hazel eyes that I really don’t think have always been hazel, lips that can onlybe described as “pillowy,” and cute, floppy hair. He’s cologne advertisement handsome. And he is visibly destroyed by the thought of missing out on learning fake magic, because he has seen all that humanity has to offer, and assigns the most importance to what he views as the very best parts of humanity. It’s a perspective that can only arise from observing the world for thousands and thousands of years and evaluating for himself what matters most in life.
“Maybe we can find some magic trick tutorials to watch on YouTube?” I offer him a smile and catch myself imagining that this is my real life. How nice would it be to share a Bloomin’ Onion with somebody... nice?
My focus cuts to the ring on my left hand, a veritable disco ball, and I slip sideways into wondering if anyone will ever love me enough to offer me a real one. Aside from the three men who have proposed, of course. Among my social set, people get engaged just to get engaged. It’s a whimsical flight of fancy that dies before it can become real. We celebrate our engagements with parties, demanding congratulations from people we haven’t spoken to in years, but when someone asksWhen’s the big daywe only have a vagueOh, probably springtime... a year or two from now. Or three. We’re really not in a rush.
None of my engagements have been real engagements. My engagement to Hall is the least real of them all, and yet, he’s the best person I’ve ever been with. He pores over his list of hopes and dreams, his features serene, and I have to remind myself I’m notwitha man like that. When I visualize Hall’s perfect match, she looks like a woman from a Hallmark Christmas movie: She loves baking cupcakes for her many friends, has loosely curled blond hair, and never stops smiling. She organizes toy drives for orphans and is incapable of being mean. Her name is probably Tess.
I have plenty of good attributes, of course—I’m always down for a fun time, I can tie a cherry stem with my tongue, and I have a knack for finding hidden gems when traveling. But I’ll admit I’m probably atadmore self-involved than is decent and am fond of revenge schemes. I have never baked a cupcake for a loved one. I glance sideways at Hall and twist my lips. Men like him don’t want women like me.
*
“Can we stop at Arby’s, please?” he asks when the road he invented leads, not all the way around town and back again to the Watsons’ like I thought, but into a town I don’t recognize. The mountains have sunk down into the earth, replaced by shorn cornfields and lower elevation that messes with my balance. “They have the meats.”
“I hate turning left across three lanes of traffic.” I squint at the road signs. “Wherearewe?”
“Shelbyville, Indiana. It sounded like a magical place. We’ll go back to Teller City, but I wanted to prolong our road trip.”
I sit with that for a moment, waiting a beat too long to move when the light turns green. “We’ve been in the car for less than an hour, but somehow we’ve driven...”
