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 my parents 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 his you 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 can always come 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 a relationship 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’s Thornfield movie?”