When Andrew switches to cheap shots of Fireball whisky (his go-to, apparently) and bats his eyes at the bartender so she puts on a Christmas playlist, I do not put my hands on Jack’s hips during the conga line that forms for “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” I don’t lean into her back or press my cheek to the rough fabric of her Carhartt jacket. When Andrew and Dylan get sloppy drunk enough to entertain the entire bar with a rendition of “All I Want for Christmas” sans karaoke machine, I don’t watch Jack sway to the music, don’t watch her lick beer foam off her lips after every sip, don’t watch her flick her chin to get her hair out of her face.

And when Jack shimmies up to the bar for another drink, I tell myself not to follow her. And then I totally do.

“You look like you’re having fun!” I shout over the Christmas music. Andrew and Dylan have now pushed aside enough tables to make a dance floor. The owner of the bar seems wholly unfazed by this development as tourists and locals alike fall under the hypnotic spell of Andrew’s charm, gathering in the middle of the bar to dance out their holiday cheer.

“I am.” Jack smiles at me, her hair sweaty and stuck to her forehead. She leans back against the bar on both elbows, and I don’t kiss her. I’m so impressed by my own self-restraint. “I needed this. Tonight,” Jack says. “I needed to get away from that house, from all the—” She cuts off mid-thought, and I watch her face, knowing her mind has gone somewhere I can’t follow.

Lip ring bartender comes over. “What can I get you?”

Jack comes back into focus and orders another IPA. Against my better judgment, I order another mule. Jack watches me, something distracted in her expression. “Are we ever going to talk about it?” she asks, and I’m struggling to connect the dots amidst the leaps her drunk brain seems to be making.

“Talk about what?”

“The kiss,” Jack half slurs, her eyes fuzzy. She’s definitely too drunk for this conversation. And I’m too sober for it. “Are we never going to talk about the fact that you kissed me?”

“Well, I think we kissed each other,” I argue. “And we only did it because of the mistletoe and your drunk family members.”

Jack clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. I don’t stare at her tongue or mouth. “I tried to pull away,” Jack corrects me, flicking her chin to get her hair out of her face, but the hair is plastered there with her sweat, so nothing happens. “You held onto me. You kept kissing me.”

My heart calcifies inside my chest in humiliation. She pulled away. I held on.