Using Taylor math, it takes seventeen listens to go about ten miles on the treacherous mountain roads, to an area with a little parking lot where other families pile out of minivans in their quest to murder a tree that will invariably leave pine needles and sap all over their homes. Or maybe I’m just in a weird, anti-Christmas mood today.

My mind is elsewhere as we trek through the woods in search of the perfect tree. I tune out as the grandmas sing Christmas songs and Katherine nitpicks about branch ratios for over an hour. When she finds a ten-foot noble fir that meets her specifications, Andrew cuts it down (with a saw), and he and Jack haul it out of the woods. Dylan shakes out a tarp in the bed of Jack’s truck, and the siblings help strap it down with twine, the tip of the tree spilling over the cab, and the stump hanging over the tailgate.

“Why don’t you ride back in the truck with me?”

I’m zoning out, so it takes me a while to realize Jack has directed this question at me. That she’s making intentional eye contact with me for the first time since the Scarf Incident.

“Wait. Me?”

Jack nods. “Yeah. Ride back with me.” This now has the essence of a command, not a request. After last night, the thought of being stuck in a truck with Jack for seventeen “ ’Tis the Damn Seasons” fills me with dread, and in a panic, I turn to Andrew.

“That sounds like a great idea,” my traitorous fiancé says. “The two of you can bond.”

“I’m not a bonder,” I say. “I don’t bond.”

“You’ve bonded with me.” Andrew grins. “Besides, you’re going to be sisters soon. Might as well get in some quality girl time.”

Jack looks vaguely ill at this statement, and I’m not sure if it’s the phrase girl time or the idea of us becoming sisters that does it. Before I can argue with Jack or Andrew, the rest of the family is piling into the Lincoln, leaving me behind with her.

Her truck is just as huge as I remember. When Jack wrenches open the passenger-side door for me and the hinges creak like the playlist of another time, I sigh, resigned, and hoist myself into the cab.

“Paul Hollywood, down!” Jack grunts. The dog immediately leaps into my lap, licking my face and wagging his tail aggressively. I pet him as Jack jogs around to the driver’s side. The truck feels too small as soon as she’s inside. Shoulders and arms and thighs. A six-foot pastry chef in the body of a competitive swimmer.

She’s too close.