I think about the teenagers who happily let us borrow their lime-green toboggans; about sitting on the top of the hill in that elementary school playground with my stomach in my throat; about flying down the hill with Jack screaming her head off beside me until we both tipped sideways and fell into the snow in a tangle of semi-injured limbs. About the way she held my hand as we walked the toboggans back up the hill to go again.

I roll my eyes. “It was mildly entertaining, I suppose.”

“I think what you mean to say is, thank you, Jack, for showing me that deviating from my rigid plans can lead to unexpected joy.”

“Let’s not get carried away.” I bend down and try to fit my soaking wet hair under the electric hand dryer. Sledding was fun, with a side effect of being rather wet. Although I’m pretty sure the thing about getting sick from the cold is a lie, I forced Jack into the nearest fast-food bathroom so we could dry off anyway.

“Honesty game,” Jack says as she shoves wadded paper towels inside her wet boots. “Why are you so fixated on always having a plan for everything?”

I squeeze out my thick braid and a little puddle of water forms on the bathroom floor. “If I have a plan,” I explain simply, “then I can’t fail.”

Jack tuts. “Sounds like a logical fallacy to me. I’ve never planned out anything in my life, and I fail all the time.”

“I don’t know very many slackers who say things like logical fallacy.”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t smart. I said the education system is poorly designed. It’s an important distinction.” She begins to unfasten the buttons on her flannel one at a time, moving from the top to bottom. The heat from the air dryer licks the back of my neck. I drop my gaze.

“My parents have been human disasters my entire life,” I tell her while staring at the puddle of water on the floor. “So I worked hard in school. I found something I’m really good at. I took all the AP classes and I got perfect grades. I took out loans for undergrad and got the fellowship I needed for grad school, and I’ve chosen a sensible, stable career that incorporates my love of art, because I don’t want to be like them when I grow up.”

I lift my gaze from the floor, and all at once there’s so much of her. My eyes don’t know what to do with it all. Collarbones visible beneath the slide of her white V-neck undershirt. The outline of a sports bra, the modest swell of her breasts, nipples hard from the cold through two layers of fabric. My lower stomach clenches unexpectedly but not unpleasantly.

“I—I um, you’re, like, naked,” I sputter awkwardly. Because of nipples.