She leans out the driver’s-side window. “Do you mind?”

“No!” I yell back. I can’t wait to wow her within an inch of her life when she sees how excellent my life has become. She’ll feel so desperately inadequate.

Speaking of inadequacy. “Now, when we get inside here,” I murmur, yanking down Hall’s collar so that I know he’s paying attention, “no fawning over my grandma, capisce?”

Hall’s brow furrows in torment. “But—”

“None,” I growl.

“What constitutes fawning?”

“No knitting her face onto your sweaters. She’d enjoy it too much. And don’t tell her you’ve seen all her movies, or she’ll be insufferable. Don’t you dare tell her she looks the same age as her daughter, either. People do that all the time, and she loathes them for it. Even though she sometimes corners them into saying so.” I wave my hand. “She’s a wicked old witch. My point is—”

Offended on my grandmother’s behalf, he divests me of my suitcases and marches resolutely forward. I hope nobody is watching through the windows to see that a couple of the roller suitcases are rolling along of their own volition. “Don’t worry, Bettie, this’ll be great. You’re going to spend a lovely week with your family. You’re going to learn the true meaning of Christmas, which is different for every person, by the way. And you’re going to replenish your holiday spirit. That’s the reason I’m here.”

“The reason you’re here is to make me look spectacular. But don’t do anything magical in front of other people without my go-ahead. They’ll either have a heart attack and die or they’ll dissect your brain and sell it to scientists.”

Hall shudders. Which might also have something to do with the tombstones that Grandma has chosen as lawn ornaments. They’re foam props from movies and soap operas in which her characters were killed off, a souvenir tradition that began as “Ha ha, look at my gravestones, how delightfully macabre” but has since grown into commentary about what sort of roles are offered to women, especially aging ones. Time magazine did a two-page spread on Grandma (she was pictured holding a scythe) and all the fictional women buried in her yard.

We should have prepared more rigorously for this. Now that our charade is about to begin, I’m breaking out in a sweat. “Remember to be the perfect boyfriend. You have to make me look good, okay? Don’t go talking about your exes.”

“That’s an easy one, as I don’t have any exes. I’ve never been a boyfriend before. To build a Perfect Boyfriend Profile, I can reference the Fifty Best Romances of All Time as listed on just a movie lovin chick dot com.” He begins ticking them off on his fingers. “Moonstruck. Love and Basketball. Moulin Rouge! The Photograph. Monsoon Wedding. The Princess Bride. Hope Floats. Slumdog Millionaire. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before.” Extra fingers begin sprouting from his hand. “Like Water for Chocolate. The Shape of Water.”

“Maybe not that one. I don’t want you acting like a fish in there.”