“No,” he groans, forcefully. “It’s no good if the weather isn’t that perfect autumn crisp that makes me wish I ran an inn in Vermont.” He laughs in a hopeless sort of way, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I sound ridiculous, I know, but I want to carve pumpkins in October. I want to pick apples with you in September.”
He could have saidI want to pick apples, but he saidI want to pick apples with you. My heart softens like butter in a pan. “We can do that.”
The gentleness of my tone only serves to prod him closer to the edge. He springs to his feet, hands behind his back. Oh, no. It’s never a good sign when Hall paces.
“The longer I’m in this form, the more human I’m becoming. The more I want and need, like a human. I want to stay here and do all the human-type things I always dreamed of, which requires time. Years and years of it. But my role is magic, which isn’t compatible with humanity or the teaspoon-sized amount of time that fits into the human experience. I didn’t expect tofeelthis much. And the momentum is so quick: at first, I felt only a little bit human, with the smallest human needs. But then they grew bigger and bigger, so fast, new ones cropping up that I’ve never had before, and I don’t know how to deal with it, how to juggle it all. There are needs that didn’t exist for me a week ago that I can’tstop thinking about now. The more of this world I interact with, the greedier I get for more. Do you see the bind I’m in?”
He’s talking rapidly and mostly to himself, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled. He stops short in front of me, gaze yearning and just a little bit lost. I see him again in the theater, eyes roving my face, barely blinking. I see him in the kitchen, slowing time to protract our kiss as Grandma’slong may they reignrings in the air. I hear his voice again and again, on loop:Do you need me to kiss you in front of them?
I let go of a few of the words at the end, the unnecessary ones.
Do you need me to kiss you?
I think that my answer to that has turned into a yes. I stand up and he moves toward me, closing his eyes as I lay a hand against his cheek; but right as my mouth begins to brush his, he pulls back. Settles a hand on my shoulder.
“Bettie,” he says delicately.
My pulse stabs at the hinge of my jaw, and the room blurs as my vision adjusts, pupils expanding. This is the problem with letting my heart go soft. Now it’s so much easier to prick.
“But you said you...” My throat is coated with sandpaper. I gesture to the graph, the proof that he likes me, but it’s gone.
The light in his eyes shutters. “All of these new feelings are for nothing. They’re all futile.”
“They’re not,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry.” His tone is like a kiss on the forehead. “If only I lived here permanently, it would be different. I would act on the feelings. But since I don’t—I’m watching your happiness climb day by day, and it’s wonderful, but that means we’re near the end... I can’t change what I am. I’ve tried. And I’ve tried delaying the inevitable, but itisinevitable.”
We look at each other with the most miserable understanding. He’s right. We’ve developed feelings for each other, which should be wonderful, but to discuss it out loud will just make it worse when he goes, as he must.
“Never mind all this.” He gestures at nothing in particular. “Never mind me. I’m not here to blather on about myself, am I? I’m here to give you holiday cheer. I’m here foryou, to help you be merry and bright.”
“If you’re not feeling merry and bright, how can I? Not everything’s about me. You can be about you, too.”
“I can’t.” He sighs. “That’s not my role. I’m being selfish, and I’m sorry.”
“You’ve never been selfish for a whole second of your existence.”
“I stole a menu from Cracker Barrel. And some traffic cones. I don’t know what possessed me to take them. I’ve never felt like this. I’m losing my grasp on myself—I get an impulse and I want to follow it no matter what. Is that what it’s like to be human?”
“You’ll learn impulse control.” Except he won’t, if he’ll be leaving soon. Who will he be when he returns to his old post? Will the feelings ebb away, or will he be forever dissatisfied up there, wanting this world when his purpose is to remain apart from it?
He shakes his head a few times.
“I can’t change the seasons,” I manage to tell him, blinking back a hot prickling in the corners of my eyes. “But if you want to go somewhere else in the world where it’s summer, we can pick apples. We can go on a trip.”
“That’s not what I’m supposed to be doing. But thank you.” He grasps my hand, squeezing lightly.
“Something else, then?” I paper over my hurt anddisappointment with a too-bright smile, a sunny tone that feels heavy in my chest. There will be time to miss Hall later, after he’s gone. I don’t want to waste however many precious weeks we may have left being miserable. “How about a winter-approved activity?” The perfect idea strikes. “I know exactly what’ll cheer us up.”
I take his hand, leading him toward the stairs. Behind us, Little Teller City shakes off its skin of magic, shrinking back to usual size. “Come, Holiday! Let us bake some delicious secular cookies, partake of glasses of milk, and revel in the ensuing warm and fuzzies.”
He returns my grin on a slight delay. Cookie baking! This should make him happy, which has spawned an unfortunate cycle of makingmehappy, which means his time will be up even sooner. When we trudge up the stairs and into the kitchen, a cold wind of despair follows after us, threaded with all the words we’ll never say out loud.
*
Chapter Sixteen
Countdown to Christmas:
