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 it is inevitable.”

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 for you, 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.”