That’s the thing about our honesty game: it made telling the truth easier, even when she wasn’t demanding it.

“Well, it’s my Airstream, and the bathroom is attached, so—”

“I’m afraid if you get up,” I clarify, holding her tight, “that this will be over.”

She pulls her head back just enough so her mouth can find my temple. “I’m not a pumpkin, Elle,” she whispers. “And I would really like to make you breakfast.”

“Not a pumpkin,” I repeat, willing myself to believe it.

“But I have to shower first,” she insists. “My hair is a disaster.”

“I love your disaster hair,” I say, running one hand through the grease.

Propped on her elbows above me, Jack sucks in a sharp breath, her eye contact burning through my entire body. “I love your hair, too,” she says back, touching what’s left of my braid from the day before.

I release her, and she climbs off the bed. She struts—truly struts—to the tiny bathroom, still unapologetically naked, and I watch her until the door closes between us. The shower turns on, followed shortly by the sound of her phone blasting a Jordin Sparks song I forgot existed. Of course Jack can’t shower without music. I smile to myself and sit in her bed, pressing my open palm to the too-much feeling in my chest.

There’s a pounding on the door to the Airstream, and Paul Hollywood awakes with a start, barking wildly at the intrusion. I scramble out of bed, searching for my underwear. “Jack!” I attempt to shout over the sound of the shower. “Someone’s here!”

She doesn’t seem to hear me over the water and the music and the barking, and I quickly slide my arms into the sleeves of her flannel and button it over myself. It looks like a dress. Like a very short dress, but an acceptable one for answering the door at nine in the morning on Christmas. I stub my toe on the edge of a cupboard as I trip over to the door, Paul Hollywood barking maniacally at my feet.

When I open the door, I’m temporarily blinded by the iridescent snow, and by the morning light reflecting off every surface. I put a hand up to shield my eyes and squint, and it’s then that I notice the woman standing below me. She’s short, with magenta hair cut to her shoulders, half-covered by a black beanie, the rest of her covered by a Patagonia coat. “Hi,” I greet her awkwardly as Paul Hollywood leaps outside and runs circles around the woman’s feet.

She eyes my bare legs, then looks up at my face. “Hi,” she says back. “Who are you?”

I tug on the hem of Jack’s shirt. “Um. Ellie? I’m Jack’s… friend. Who are you?”

“I’m Claire,” the woman with the magenta hair says. “I’m Jack’s wife.”