The seconds tick on, each one a terrible throb. His expression shows that he wants to say something else but can’t bring himself to.

“All right.” I try to inject cheer into it when I add, “Puzzle time, then.”

“Definitely. And you know, we should go ahead and do the papier-mâché thing, too. If I post a picture of it online, maybe I’ll get her attention. I would very much like her attention.”

“I am going to get you Lacey Chabert for Christmas, Hall. I swear.”

He laughs hoarsely. “Meet you in the den in a few minutes?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I leave the room, closing the door behind me so that he can have privacy. And then I go straight to the living room, which thankfully only has my dozing grandfather in it, and begin removing lightbulbs from the Christmas tree.

*

Chapter Seventeen

Countdown to Christmas:
2 Days

NO MATTER HOW many candy canes I throw away, it keeps getting worse.

The beach furnishings are gone, and Hall has redoubled his Christmas cheer efforts with laser-focused intention. Grandma and Grandpa’s house is once more a swarm of red and green, silver and gold, hazy with mint (although no one can detect the source of it), towering Christmas trees in every room, bedecked in so much garland and ornaments that you can’t tell the lights no longer work. I’ve been snatching up decorations and stuffing them behind cereal boxes in the lazy Susan, hiding them in closets and storage tubs out in the garage, but it’s not enough. There’s too much to keep up with, and we’re surrounded. Hall can no longer hold himself back from doing what he was designed to do, showering us with every trimming you’d want for a perfect Christmas Eve: fluffy snowfall, instrumental music drifting from corners, a cozy fire, and an almost drowsy sort of happiness, one where you feel you could curl up in an armchair and be content forever. Hall’s gone all out with the food, too: bibingka, traditional Christmas pudding, peppermint bark cheesecake, leche flan, pumpkin spice and cranberry babka, a Yule log cake that will take weeks to devour, gingerbread truffles, and a truckload of meticulously decorated sugar cookies.

It’s devastating.

Grandma’s relaxing on the sofa with her feet up on an ottoman, wearing a lazy, feline smile as she rereads letters she claims a prince (“I won’t say which one”) once wrote for her. Mom and Athena are watching Feud: Bette and Joan, Dad growing annoyed by the number of times Mom has mentioned how handsome Stanley Tucci is. The kids are in the den teaching Grandpa how to play Minecraft while Sean feigns interest, enjoying his cheesecake. Kaia’s curled up in the window seat with her guitar, gamely taking all our song requests, plucking away tranquilly and stopping every now and then to write down music.

If I’m going to keep Hall on earth longer, that means I’ve got to build a giant wall between myself and any modicum of cheerfulness and embrace Emo Bettie. But Hall has noted that I’m not as merry as the others, and he won’t rest until that’s fixed. He keeps experimenting with sounds and scents, learning what triggers my nostalgia, torturing me with Mariah Carey and the smell of maple syrup and butter. I try to hide from him after lunch, Kaia’s saddest ballads blasting in my earbuds, reminding myself about all the despicable people and despicable things that make me upset. I’ve drawn up a list: Kelly Frederick. Lucas Dormer. Chip and Joanna Gaines. LuLaRoe. Capital One. Piers Morgan. David Letterman.