It’s snowing in the living room, dusting our hair, the Christmas tree. Music fades in and out from nowhere, lamps flaring to life—reaching excruciatingly bright crescendos just before the bulbs turn black and die. Hall either doesn’t know or doesn’t care as he goes on kissing me like he’s breaking down from the inside out and every touch could be the last. He doesn’t take any of it for granted, doesn’t beg or bargain. He simply takes and savors. He makes me wish we could rewind to the moment he was conjured and spend our whole time together just like this, even though that would be impossible. When we met, we were different. We had to grow into new versions of ourselves before we could grow into this version of us.

We part for air, unsteady on our feet. My vision is dark and vibrating at the edges, all except for Hall, who glows like a star.

I can’t stop staring.

“Look at you now,” he says tenderly, mouth hitching into a smile that can’t help itself. “Oh, that’s the most beautiful happiness I’ve ever seen.”

“You don’t look as happy,” I tell him, my chin quivering. “I took it all from you. Take it back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Please, Hall.” I hear my desperation, edged with mania.

“You deserve only the best, do you understand me?” He holds me close. “I need you to internalize that. I want you to treat yourself as I would, with kindness and respect. Promise me.”

My eyes well with tears, then overflow. I need to keep him here, but I can’t make this harder for him than it already is, so I say, “I promise.”

“I wanted so much more.” His words are raw, almost shaking, palm curling against my cheek. Hot tears splash his fingers. His expression is so anguished that I have to close my eyes. Only for a second.

They’re still closed when the hands slip away from my skin. His heartbeat no longer beats against my sternum; no curling tips of his hair tickle my forehead. The dependable solidity I’ve been leaning against gives way so abruptly that I stagger to catch my balance, arms wrapping only around myself. But his last words still press to my throat like a kiss.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, even though it’s too late for him to hear it.

When Hall disappears, there is no dramatic puff of smoke. There is no remarkable sound or scent or special effects to mark the loss; there is only nothing in the space where he was. An absence of that extraordinary feeling he embodies and radiates outward, especially toward me . . . which I can say honestly, only now that he’s gone . . .

Is love.

*

Chapter Nineteen

Christmas Day

WHAT DID I tell you about sleeping on the couch? I won’t be responsible for any pregnancies, Bettie Gardenia.”

“What?” I mumble, opening my eyes. Why are my eyes so sore? My chest is aching, too.