The stupid scarf in question is draped over my right arm, and I set down Fun Home so I can take the scarf in both hands. I’d been in such a hurry to leave that morning, crying and grabbing my things from around the Airstream, that I’d forgotten the scarf. I’d taken it off before we slept together, set it down on the kitchen counter next to the flour. Now the scarf smells like her.

“That isn’t how it happened,” I finally say. I can’t look up at Jack as my fingers wind deeper into the yarn. “That… that isn’t what happened that morning. I—I didn’t ghost you. I left because…”

“Because why?” Jack asks when I trail off. She takes a step forward, and in the crampedness of the Airstream, one step brings her so close to me, I can smell the whisky eggnog, the past slamming into the present, and it’s all too much. “Why did you leave that morning? What did I do wrong?”

Jack’s voice cracks over the question, and there’s no shield of indifference to keep her safe. There’s nothing to keep me safe, either. Jack cares, but that’s not what happened between us. That’s not the story I’ve been telling myself for the past year. That isn’t the version of events I immortalized in my webcomic.

“Never mind,” Jack says suddenly, putting space between us again. “We shouldn’t… you’re engaged to my brother, and I can’t—”

Jack grabs the tote of gingerbread house supplies, and before I can open my mouth to speak, she’s back outside in the snow. I’m left behind in the Airstream, in this perfectly preserved time capsule of one of the worst days of my life, trying to put all the pieces together.

There’s a scarf in my hands and a drawer of my things and Jack cares, and none of that aligns with the version of events from that morning. I’ve relived that morning a hundred times. I remember every detail—how Jack and I fell apart as quickly as we came together. And for once, the failure had nothing to do with me.

A Webcomic

By Oliverartssometimes

Episode 10: The Missus
(Christmas Day, 10:02 a.m.)

Uploaded: February 25, 2022

“Honesty game: how long have you been watching me sleep?”

She stretches her arms up over her head in a massive morning yawn.

“Not long,” I say.

“Liar.” Her voice is especially raspy first thing in the morning, thick with sleep and hoarse from other things, and she looks—fuck.

Jack first thing in the morning is just fuck.