Jack Kim-Prescott keeps the copy of Fun Home she bought on Christmas Eve wrapped up in my scarf. “Why do you have this?” I ask again, because I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say.

Jack says nothing, and I pick the book up off the floor. I hold Fun Home between my hands. The spine is still crisp, and it looks unread, but there is a small bookmark sticking out from the middle. I open to the page, and there, holding a spot, is the drawing I did of Jack’s hand in Powell’s coffee shop.

“Elle—”

“Why do you have a drawer of my things?”

“Well, technically, only the scarf is yours,” she says casually, “because I bought the book, and you gave me the drawing.”

“Semantics.” I shake the book in her direction, trying to understand. “Why did you keep these things?”

“Why wouldn’t I keep them?” Jack asks.

Because it didn’t mean anything. Because what we had that day hadn’t meant a damn thing to her, so why does she have a drawer of mementos in the same way I have a file folder of art? I look up, and Jack has set the tote back down. She’s leaning against the table with that same indifferent slouch from our first meeting in Powell’s, but now, the indifference feels more rehearsed than genuine. She looks like someone who is trying very hard to look like she doesn’t care.

“Can we not do this?” Jack asks, flicking her chin to get her hair out of her face. She needs a bobby pin. Or someone who is always next to her, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

“Not do what?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder. Had her indifference always been this poorly playacted, and I just hadn’t been able to see past her carefully crafted coolness? “It’s embarrassing, Elle,” Jack spits out.

“I don’t get it. Embarrassing how?”

Jack straightens. “Look, you ghosted while I was in the shower, okay? And it’s fine. It’s whatever. I thought our day together meant something else, but it hadn’t, and that’s whatever.”

I shake my head. No. No, that’s not what happened….

“It was a one-night stand, and that’s chill,” she says, but there’s nothing “chill” about her now, about the way she’s pushing out her words in a frantic rush. Like it meant something then and it means something now and she’s trying so hard to protect herself.

But that’s not right. Because I was the one who thought it meant something. I was the one who had my heart broken. Not Jack.

“And now you’re engaged to my brother, of all people,” Jack is rambling, “and there is no point rehashing the past or what happened or why you left. So, yeah. It’s embarrassing that I kept your stupid scarf.”