The yacht, which Hall conjured for me during my Wish For Everything In The Song “Santa Baby” Extravaganza is presently stuck in the mountains, and is going to find new significance raising money for children in need. I am calling the organization Yachts for Tots. Having started off with a bang, I keep up the momentum by brainstorming as many sellable items as I can bear to part with: all the custom jewelry Hall designed for me, ball gowns, my collection of Valentino Rockstud bags that I craved to fill the void of having to sell all my bags when I went bankrupt. My La Californienne Large Cartier Tank Wrap Strap Watch joins the auction, and I just know that it’s going to end up on an ungrateful TikTok star. But this watch is four thousand dollars! Why do I need to impress strangers with brand names, anyway? Watches are useless. Time is a construct, so I do not recognize its authority. Time is math, which is another construct that I do not recognize.
The next order of business will be figuring out how to return all the stuff I can’t, in all good conscience, sell: Amal Clooney’s engagement ring. Elizabeth Taylor’s engagement ring. JLo’s green dress. Louis Armstrong’s trumpet. I’ll have to hire my nieces and nephews to shoot these items out of T-shirt cannons, over security gates, to land on the doorsteps of their rightful owners. And then run away very fast.
My notes app fills up with more stuff I asked Hall to procure for me: rare shoes, first-edition copies of old books I wanted purely for bragging rights, photographs of galaxies beyond the reach of our technology, a marble bust of Rihanna. And one big-ticket item I’ve been holding on to for years, despite the bankruptcy, which I bought with my first big paycheck: the oil painting above my bed in which I’m wearing a feather boa and nothing else, oiled-up legs dangling over the arm of a zebra chair. The way the light hits my cans is breathtaking, and I want to see if my tastefully decorated rack fetches fifteen grand—which, according to a GoFundMe, is how much a small town in Virginia needs to build a new playground. Maybe they’ll even name it after me. My attention flits toward the ceiling, imagining a mist somewhere above the roof of this house. Not that it matters. I’m not doing this for clout. You hear me, mystical cosmos? My motives are completely pure.
I only hope Hall’s feelings haven’t changed, now that he isn’t human (or at least he’d gotten close to being so) anymore. I hope that my good deeds will be enough, that I’ll earn him back.
Later today, when I return to the town house (Christmas is over, and we’ll all be branching off to our own respective homes, cities, and states over the next few days), I’ll take pictures of everything and bring the auction online. “We’re going to get him back,” I promise Hildy, who’s currently sleeping in my bra. I tug the front of my shirt down to stroke the tiny animal down her soft back, and love bursts inside me against my will. Hildy is surprisingly docile, and cute, I suppose. She’s used to Hall, who gave her lots of lovin’s, so I’m trying not to disappoint her too much by being... not Hall. He sets a high standard.
A knock at the door commands my attention, followed by myparents and grandfather poking their heads in. “All right?” Mom asks. “We don’t want to bother you, just want to see if you’re okay.”
I set my phone down. Suck in a deep breath.
“Actually. Could you come here for a minute?”
They trickle inside curiously, Dad leaning on the wall with his arms crossed while Mom climbs into bed beside me and Grandpa perches at the foot.
“I haven’t been entirely honest with you.”
I’m emotionally wrecked and I know their support will make me feel better, but in order to get that support I have to endure the hard part and come clean. I don’t tell them Hall is the Holiday Spirit, of course, because they’d worry about my mental state, but I confess that I never recovered from all my financial problems like I claimed to have. The string of mistakes I made: how when I teamed up with brands to start my own labels, I didn’t know what I was doing and took bad advice. I didn’t save any of my windfall. I tell them I’ve been living in Teller City for months, in a dead woman’s house. Mom goes rather pale with worry, and I can tell Dad is trying hard to suppress judgment. He swallows all of hisyou should have done x or y, surprising me by gathering me into a hug instead.
“We would have helped,” he says softly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Bettie, you canalwayscome to us when you need help,” Mom tells me. “No matter how old you get.”
“I didn’t want you and Dad to argue over it. And... it was embarrassing. Athena, Kaia, and Felix—”
“Have needed help, too,” she interrupts. “I can’t tell you all the times Felix has needed a guest room to stay in because arelationship didn’t work out. Kaia loaned your dad and me her car when we were having car trouble. I go with Athena every time she visits the doctor. Felix mows our lawn and collects our mail when we’re away. I still bake Kaia’s favorite zucchini bread and mail it to her, wherever she is in the world. And did you know that Athena is one of the producers for Felix’sThornfieldmovie?”
I shake my head, dumbfounded.
“Helping him out, like he helped her out when she needed capital for a makeup line.”
“I didn’t know Athena had her own makeup line.”
“It fell through. She didn’t come to us when that happened, either, and when I found out, we had a long talk. She thought I’d insist on giving her money, which she didn’t want from me. But all I wanted was to be there for her, give her support.”
“And advice,” Dad interjects huffily. “We’re not half bad at it, you know. We didn’t come by all this wisdom for nothing. Let us pass it along to you.”
Mom smiles. “Athena’s going to be trying again, with different products, when she’s ready.”
“Yes, wedowant you to be independent adults,” Dad adds as I digest this new information, “but we also want you to let us know when you’re in trouble, in times when you can’t be independent. Shit happens. We’re here for you when it does. And if you want, you’re welcome to move back in with us temporarily until you’re back on your feet.” He says it so confidently, as though he has no doubt I’ll prevail.
“Thanks, I appreciate that. But I’m going to keep living here for a while, I think. I got a new place downtown.” All I need now is a job.
Mom and Dad, mouths open, are the picture of shock. “You want to stay in Teller City?”
“Yeah. I mean, I know I go on about how much I love the beach, but...” I think of Hall and me together in the red truck, driving above the valley, its glowing grid, beams shooting up into the clouds like searchlights. I see us caroling in the streets, all the smiling, friendly faces in doorways. The dollhouse that flowered between two buildings, which I’m going to call home, and that tight-knit sense of belonging that I’ve come to associate with Teller City. Wouldn’t it be lovely to preserve a shred of the way Christmas makes me feel now that I’ve known Hall, to hold that feeling close all the time? “I like it here,” I finish. “The town’s grown on me. Besides, you can’t beat the free grocery deliveries, and the complimentary tire-changing services.”
“Complimentary tire-changing?” Dad’s eyes zip to Grandpa, who shakes out his newspaper and disappears behind it, like Hall does whenever he wants to memorize new weather forecast phrases. “Is that a thing?”
“Who knows?” Grandpa replies airily. “I’m all the way up here on this hill. Don’t know about anything that goes on down there.”
Dad just stares at him, then at me. I wonder how long my grandparents have known I’ve been lurking on their turf, or why they let me get away with my production of Look How Great Bettie Is Doing. Then again, Grandma’s an exceedingly proud woman to whom image is everything, and I get more than just my name from her. Perhaps she understood.
“Thanks for the groceries, Grandpa,” I say quietly.
