“Oh.” There’s nothing but the fabric of her sports bra between me and the rest of her skin, and for some reason, that’s the only thing I can think of. “But I also don’t mind waiting to kiss you until you’re ready,” she says with another shrug. “In fact…”

She tugs her T-shirt back on, and for a second her expression vanishes. When she emerges again, she’s smiling at me.

“I think I’m going to enjoy waiting.”

Chapter Fifteen

Friends.

I’m stuck at a cabin with Jack Kim-Prescott for five more days, and she wants to be friends.

As soon as we get back home, I flee to the nearest bathroom to cry on a toilet seat about it.

It is, at least, a nice bathroom for crying. The kind with a gilded mirror and expensive soaps and vases full of decorative rocks. I sit on the closed toilet seat with my head in my hands, letting the tears leak down between my fingers as I try to catch my breath.

I’m not even sure why I’m crying. This doesn’t change anything.

Does it change anything?

Sure, Jack really liked me. She kept the things that reminded me of her in a drawer. Except now she thinks I’m engaged to her brother. With Andrew, I’m guaranteed two hundred thousand dollars. With Jack, there’s… no guarantee at all.

I try to call Meredith, but she doesn’t answer, so for a minute I stare at my phone screen, unsure of who I’m supposed to talk to right now. My terrible mother? My terrible therapist?

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, quickly followed by, “Sugar, let me in.”

I hesitate a moment before reaching over to unlock the bathroom door. Meemaw steps in, having changed into a floor-length red velvet dress that makes her look like a lounge singer doing a Christmas special. She’s carrying two mugs of something that stings my sinuses. “Are you ill? Or are you avoiding dinner because you know it’s my night to cook, which means frozen taquitos and Bagel Bites?”

I snort and dislodge a bit of snot. “Actually, Bagel Bites are gourmet by my standards.”

“Darlin’.” Meemaw stops by the sink when she sees my tears. “Whatever is the matter?”

I unspool a wad of toilet paper to dab under my eyes. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” She sits down on the edge of the bathtub and passes me a mug. “I won’t have any apologizing in this bathroom, and I especially won’t tolerate any apologies for having emotions.”

I snort again. I spent most of my childhood apologizing to my mother for that exact reason.

“I’m sorry that I’m in here crying when I should be out there decorating the Christmas tree with everyone else,” I clarify. “It’s on the schedule.”