There are four people on this side of the street: a mother and her two young children, and an old man. I whirl around, watching my own puzzled reflection in the window of Teller City Market. There are no display phones with Hall waving from them, but I do notice something else: speakers fixed to the other side of the store are blaring a Christmas song, and I am fairly certain the correct lyrics aren’t supposed to be It’s beginning to look a lot like Bett-iiie.

“Bettie?”

Kaia joins me outside, handing me my purse. “You okay?”

“Listen!”

“What?” Her eyes zip up and down me as though I might be hurt. “Listen to what? What is it?”

“That!” I point at the speakers. This is proof that he’s here in some capacity, watching. Trying to be with me from up in that everywhere.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” Perry Como croons.

My hand falls. “It was . . . it wasn’t that, though, it was Hall. I heard him singing. Right there! He was coming out of that, right there. But instead of Christmas, he was saying . . .” I drift off, hearing the words falling out of my mouth. “. . . Bettie.”

I cover my face with my hands.

“Oh, honey.”

“Nooo, not the oh, honey.”

“Yes, babe. C’mere.” She drops our purses onto the pavement and scoops me into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay, okay? I’ve got you. I know I’m not a hot guy in a sweater, but I give good hugs.”

“You really do,” I reply, words muffled by her shoulder. “Your perfume is amazing.” I deeply inhale the raspberry and vanilla fragrance, which has a calming effect.

“Can I make a confession?”

I pull back slightly. “Yeah?”

“This is the perfume Courtney wears. I bought it so that I could smell her all the time.”

Now it’s my turn to smush her into a hug. “Oh, honey.”

“I know.”

“You need to go to her. You need to grovel.”

She looks anguished. “I don’t know how.”

“I bet you’ve written songs about her.”

She groans, betraying the truth.

“Exactly.” I’m triumphant. “Serenade her with one of your songs. Toss long-stemmed red roses at her window. Who could resist?” I squeeze her hands in mine. “If you want her, you have to tell her, all right? Don’t be stupid.”

“I hate feelings-talk.”

And then we both have to laugh, because hoo, boy, is that a genetic trait, and also because a couple of teenage girls are staring at us from about four feet away, bug-eyed. I sling an arm around Kaia’s waist. We’re about to go back into the diner when one of the girls nervously steps forward, fidgeting with her hands. “Um.”

We pause. “Hi?” Kaia prompts.

“It’s just.” She bites her lip, forcing herself to meet my gaze. “Would you sign something for me?”

“Uh, sure.” I was betting that she’d ask for Kaia’s autograph. I start digging in my purse for a scrap piece of paper to sign.