Page 49 of Elf-ish

“Your question about Scrooge and transformation.”

I snort. “What about it?”

“Maybe you don’t believe in change because you haven’t lived change yet.”

“What do you mean?” My brows pinch while I tighten my grasp on the steering wheel once more.

“You don’t believe Ebenezer Scrooge transformed after his night with the spirits, but he did. He gave money to a kid to buy the largest goose in the town. He made amends with his nephew, Fred, and recognized Bob Cratchit’s worth. And he showed compassion toward Tiny Tim.”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Then he ran down the street like a lunatic wishing a Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night.”

“The first part of your statement was in It’s a Wonderful Life when George Bailey runs home to his wife because he’s had an epiphany about his life. And the second part is from “A Visit From Saint Nicholas” a poem about Christmas Eve.”

I chuff, puckering my lips as I glare at her. “You know what I mean. Scrooge probably had a momentary reaction, then slipped back into his old miserly ways.”

Angelica stares back at me, but I return my gaze to the dark road in front of us, suddenly not liking the path of this conversation.

“Maybe you need a little practice. Or you might return to your miserly ways.” Under her breath, she adds, “Or miserable ones.”

“What was that?” I counter, although I heard her as if she spoke directly to me. When she doesn’t answer, I add, “And you think volunteering is good practice?”

“It’s a start.”

Her thumbs start typing on her phone, and my annoyance further grows. Who the fuck could she be talking to this early in the morning?

“What’s so important over there?”

“I’m making you a list.”

“A list?” I parrot, then mock. “One you need me to check twice?”

She ignores me, lifting her head once a few seconds later and staring out the windshield, before she returns to her aggressive typing. When her fingers stop moving, she stares down at her phone, presumably reading whatever she’s written.

“I’ve made a list of the things Scrooge did immediately after his night with the ghosts.” She pauses, while still gazing at her phone, then reads off her interpretation.

Her list is a repeat of what she’d previously mentioned. “I don’t need a fucking English Lit lesson.”

She smiles, unfazed by my tone. “You need a wake-up call. Here it is.” She wiggles her phone in the air. “I’m going to text this to you. Think about ways you can do things like Scrooge did. Then maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel like a changed man.”

“There’s nothing wrong with who I am,” I defend.

But wasn’t that the crux of things? I’d asked her if she believed people could change, because something happened to me. I feel different, unsettled, anxious for . . . something I can’t quite explain to myself, let alone to her. Now, she’s turning that confession into an assignment.

Fuck that.

While white-knuckling the steering wheel, a notification pings on my phone, announcing the arrival of her list.

I need coffee before I can tackle this shit. Real coffee. Not the fake stuff. Like a fake girlfriend telling me how to change my reality.

“You’re right, Jude. There isn’t anything wrong with you. But you . . . the real you . . . is buried somewhere inside you, waiting to be a better you.”

I’d told her last night I wasn’t a great man. Not even a good man. I didn’t see how I could transform into a better one. I wasn’t a fucking butterfly.

And I hate that she’s turning what I said against me.

“So, what’s on the list?” My back teeth snap as my jaw tightens. I don’t even know why I ask. I’m going to ignore the list and delete it from my phone. Still, curiosity has me in a chokehold.

“Just read it later.” Her voice is too cheerful, like she’s really proud of herself for coming up with something special.