“Thanks for the groceries, Grandpa,” I say quietly.

He flicks the newspaper to another page. “Don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

When they leave the room, I expect despair to swallow me whole again, but it strangely doesn’t. It’s as if their love parted the curtains of that darkness, shining a light in. And even though they’ve gone downstairs, even though the half-finished mug of hot cocoa on Hall’s bedside table makes my eyes sting, I think that light will remain.

*

Chapter Twenty

I WAKE UP ON December twenty-sixth back in my town house, afternoon streaming through gold gossamer curtains, breathing deeply for any trace of peppermint.

Nothing.

I fly downstairs, hoping against hope that Hall will be bustling about the kitchen, which he’s made adjustments to in our absence—it’s more practical now, with powder-blue polka dot dishware and tropical houseplants that are mercifully fake. He’s transformed what was his bedroom into an office space. Instead of a sleigh bed, it holds a craft table laden with calligraphy sets, a Cricut Joy Machine, a printer, and containers of sequins, glue, and stickers.

While the gift makes me smile, his absence feels like a big red REJECTED stamp over all my efforts. Christmas is over. Hall is gone, which I can’t undo, no matter how strong my willpower might be. “It’s not fair,” I mumble. “I discovered the true meaning of Christmas! Isn’t that enough?” Honestly, what’s it going to take? I was up in the wee hours of the morning methodically planning how many new leaves I’m going to turn, estimating how much better I’ll have to become as a person before I’m rewarded for it.

Something else that isn’t fair: Teller City is gorgeous today. We’ve got crisp white heavens and six inches of snow, when in a world where there was any justice it’d be slushy right now, sky a gloomy gray blob. I hear laughter wafting from outside, where children are inconsiderately enjoying themselves, and my first instinct is to go ruin it. I’ll shoot ornaments off the giant Christmas tree in the town square with a BB gun, then start slinging snowballs at children who dare to come admire my pretty gingerbread house.

Dressed in Hall’s sweater, which now he’ll never be able to wear himself, I thump outside and puncture a hole in a blow-up Nutcracker soldier with an icicle. I’m going to be a typhoon of misery! I’m going to spread it everywhere! If I can’t be happy, then—

There’s a small parade flowing down the street.

A parade of Watson-Hugheses.

Mom and Marilou are carrying pies; Sean, Grandpa, and Felix are holding boxes of dishware; Grandma’s got a painting under her arm that looks like a genuine Edgar Degas; Athena’s got a cutting board; Kaia has a hand-painted Home is where a Hughes is key hook. The children are busy swinging around baskets, soap dispensers, and embroidered hand towels. Ichabod chucks a vase like a football at Frangipane but misses, and it shatters on the sidewalk. Kaia gives him a gentle noogie.