Hall is so heartbroken that he can’t bear to commit to any other fast-food establishment but is somehow of sound enough mind to reject my suggestions. Ultimately we drive by every restaurant, blood sugar plummeting, barreling toward the outskirts of town. Then the outskirts of the outskirts.
Over the next forty-five minutes, snow steadily picks up (“I promise I’m not doing it this time. I was lying about not doing it last time, but this time I’m not lying”), making it difficult to discern roadside signs for food exits. “Hall, if you don’t conjure me a burger right this second, I’m opening your door and kicking you out. Right into the road. We’re lost somewhere in Wisconsin—”
“We’re never lost. I know exactly where we are.”
“—and we should be finished eating by now, butno, because you’re too indecisive.”
“I’m too sad to do magic.” He slumps in his seat.
But not too sad to read. We discover that Hall gets carsick when he reads while in motion, but he won’t stop. He switches on the interior light, refusing to put it down. I try to sneak a peek. “What are you reading?”
Hall shifts away. Says curtly, “Bettie, if youplease.”
“Why can’t I look? Because of my mortal eyes?”
“Because you need to pay attention to the road, you reckless driver.”
He’s not wrong.
“It’s getting too heavy to see through. Can’t you teleport us to a Denny’s?”
He sighs. It’s a long, tortured sound, pickpocketed from Grandma’s bag of theatrics. I’m going to have to talk with him about mimicking her. “I’m too motion sick to do magic.”
I’m going to throttle him. We’re in a town called Bonnaroo or Barryboo, flares of streetlights streaking through the blizzard. I hunt for a good place to pull over, because I cannot sit in this car for one more second. Luckily, an exit presents itself, and as soon as the car’s in park, I jump out to walk off some steam.
Hall kills the engine, leaning across his seat to peer through the driver’s-side window. His jaw goes slack.
We’re in a half-filled parking lot, heavens violet and low, orange limning the skyline. The wonder transforming his features has a funny effect on me. A thin crack travels up my heart—I hear a breaking sound, like shattered glass.
There are tears in his eyes, big and shining with lamplight. “I’ve been all over the world,” he whispers, “but this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen.”
We’re at a Cracker Barrel.
*
Chapter Eleven
A LONG, SKINNY FRONTporch with about twenty rocking chairs creaking in the wind is tacked onto the front of the restaurant. We step into a cozy, warmly lit shop rather than a dining area, which veers off to the left, separate from the retail section. It reminds me of stores from the Old West days, wood floor a gleaming blond, every nook and cranny teeming with Beanie Babies, Stewart’s Cream Soda, and jars of hard candy. Christmassy merchandise is in full bloom: expensive Rankin-Bass, Americana primitives utilizing a lot of burlap, pip berry wreaths, rustic wall hangings, quilts made by the Amish. Teller City shops carry a similar atmosphere, but this is... alot. Hall and I can’t decide where to focus first, necks snapping as we gape all around like we’ve landed on another planet. “It smells like butter,” he breathes, closing his eyes. “And maple syrup. Mmmm.”
“I’m gonna go ask for a table. You stay over here and try not to alarm anyone.”
Hall isn’t listening. He’s poking at a cast-iron skillet filled with Moon Pies.
“Table for two?” I ask the hostess, leaning for a better peek into the dining area. There’s a lot going on in there, too. A bicycle and wagon wheels hang from the rafters. Every inch of wall space is adorned with old plates, black-and-white portraits of pioneers, deer heads, vintage tin signs, and banjos. Oil lamps are the centerpiece of every table, along with little triangular wooden blocks with pegs in them. Children are pulling the pegs out and sticking them back in, so it must be a game of some sort.
The hostess greets me with a friendly smile and an apology that it’ll be a short wait. My stomach is eating itself. I join Hall in nosing around the shop, sniffing craft soaps and candles, tempted to nibble the ones that smell like food. Hall can’t resist touching every single ornament, dropping borderline-inappropriate noises of appreciation. Other customers grant us a wide berth.
He picks up a rainbow swirl lollipop in the shape of a heart and holds it up to the light, a treasure in the wild.
A guy in a trucker hat nearby throws Hall a look that is crossed between confusion and annoyance, and I narrow my eyes at him until he turns away. I’m seized by feral protectiveness of Hall’s personality, his worldview, what makes him different. It is so goddamn refreshing to spend time with a man who is this in touch with his emotions, who is respectful, sensitive, wise yet playful. He’s made of literal holiday magic, not a single drop of toxic masculinity to be found. He wasn’t raised with societal expectations baked into his every molecule, and the result is fascinating. A twinkling example of what could be.
I lean against a rack of quilted purses, the corner of my mouthkicking up. “I bet your heart is actually shaped like that.” I point. “Like the hearts in cartoons.”
He wings a brow. “My heart is the same as yours.”
“Yours is sweeter.”
“That’s not true.”
