To my disappointment, he slips away, returning to his baking. He pats down flour, flattens his crust with a pin, going through each step manually rather than snapping his fingers to get the job done. The only light in the kitchen is the yellow bulb in the range hood over the stove, which splashes against his profile and flares it over the wall in shadow.
“How did it make you feel,” he replies at length, “when you wrote down all these names?”
I watch him guardedly. He doesn’t glance in my direction. “Satisfied.”
“Mm. And how did you feel when you were making that?” Hall gestures to the doodled nachos.
I shrug. “Happy?”
As soon as the word trips out, I realize his trick.
“If you do things that make youandothers happy, I promise you will find that happiness much more rewarding than revenge. You found yourself in a position of considerable power when you conjured me; what you do with it can change who you are for the better, or...” He drifts off lightly. “Not. Don’t allow yourself to get wrapped up in bitterness.”
“Listen, Hall, I appreciate that you’re good and pure and Holiday Magic. But some of us are human with scores to settle. Why should I let those awful people get away with publishing awful stuff about me?”
He presses his cookie cutter into the dough, carving out maple leaves. “Maybe I’m not human, but I’m also not who Iwasanymore. Not all the way. I’m ancient, but everything feels new. My old life is so distant that I think I’ll soon forget what it was like. I don’t know who I’m becoming. But Idoknow that my choices decide that. Conscious, deliberate choices. I am magic from the inside out, but have you ever seen me eager to use my magic as a weapon against anyone? I see the strange looks some people give me. The smirks. I hear the laughing whispers. Not everybody likes me—”
“They’re stupid, then,” I cut in quickly, indignant. “Give me their names.”
He slants me a meaningful look. “It’s all right that not everyone likes me. I likemyself.”
I twist the hem of my shirt around my finger, shame beginning to filter in along with the stubborn anger that surges whenever I reflect on all the ways I’ve been maligned.
I don’t like that Bettie Hughes, I think, recalling the snide remarkof a woman I once passed on Rodeo Drive.She’s not very nice. Kaia and Athena are probably fake, but at least they’re nice.
Plenty of people have said pleasant comments to me over the course of my life. I don’t remember many of them. My brain keeps only the worst experiences intact, transferring them all to long-term memory storage while compliments and praise rot away.
I’m rattling and angry and I know it makes people like me less. Knowing this makes me angrier. “I’ll never be good enough, smart enough, beautiful enough,” I burst out. “I’ll never be as successful as the legend I’ve been compared to all my life. If I was born blond and they’d named me Crystal, I’d be so well-adjusted right now, probably a preschool teacher or something. I’m not a decorated actress or a brilliant singer.”
He faces me sharply, eyes alight with something shrewd and hunting as he scans every detail of my features. “And whatisit, exactly, that you want?”
Staring at each other, he sees me, and I see him, too. How he likes the intimacy of feeling he’s in a position to ask me questions and receive honest answers, ones I’d avoid if they were posed by someone else. He likes being the inside man sorting through my thoughts with me, being the person I open up to.
“To feel better about myself. I want to feel fulfilled,” I reply bluntly. “I want my aha! moment, to see the path that’s right for me and be able to recognize it clearly for what it is. Like my mom. She found her path with cooking, and now I can practically see the inner peace shining from her orifices. I want that. But my only skill is coming up with spiteful wishes. I’m drawn to men who make bad boyfriends, ideas that make bad business ventures. My impulses get me into trouble, and I say the wrong thing too often. I’ll never get it right.”
Hall abandons his work, pressing gentle hands to either side of my face. The rest of the kitchen lights flicker on, the room soon glowing merrily. “That isn’t true.”
“You’re going to tell me to cheer up,” I sigh.
“You have a right to feel what you feel,” he says. “But Bettie, you’ve been burning so long, and I know you’re tired. You can’t change anyone’s opinion of you by getting revenge on them, even though it might feel good for a few moments. You’re hurting yourself trying to be a version of perfect that you’ve made up in your head. The only one who expects you to be that version isyou. You can let it go, if you want.” He drums his fingers on the counter. “Also? Some food for thought? Your mom was nearly twice your age when she discovered that her passion was cooking. Soul-searching takes however long it takes, and really, I don’t think it ever ends. There’s no deadline for figuring yourself out.”
I watch him wearily. He’s right.
“Damn,” I croak.
He folds me into a hug, and I go very still before ultimately melting into him. “I know you’ve probably heard this advice before, but you don’t have to forgive the people who are bad to you. However, if they’re not ever going to give you the apology you require in order to move on, then you have to let it go for your own sake. The best revenge is making peace with a past you can’t change and figuring out how to make the future a happier place for yourself to live in. That’s how you come out on top.”
“I should be happier now,” I remark, sniffling into his shoulder. “I have Elizabeth Taylor’s ring. It’s thirty-three carats.”
Hall laughs softly. “Ah, Bettie,” he says in a tender tone, slipping his fingers in my hair. “That might not be enough.”
His breath is a relaxant, every aspect of him promising safety, care, a sure and gentle touch. I want to lean into all that and breathe it. I want to feel like this all the time. I don’t want to be this scared and bitter person keeping all my grudges alive like a muscle that never stops clenching. Hall has a point. Ultimately, I’m the only one who suffers from the effects.
“I didn’t want to hear any of that,” I tell him. “But thank you for saying it.” After a pause, I venture, “What if I make a wish that’s only atinypart revenge, but also for the greater good?”
He quirks a brow.
“I want to steal a ton of Elon Musk’s money and distribute it to world hunger organizations.”
