“You didn’t seem surprised,” Jack remarks, “to see your fiancé kissing someone else.”

“Well,” I say, stupidly, “I’d kissed someone else the night before, so…”

“So, you’re not in love with Andrew, and you don’t seem to care that he kissed someone else…?” Jack’s gaze burns the side of my face. “Why are you getting married, exactly?”

It’s suddenly too hot by the fire, so I get up and take my whisky over to the record player in the corner of the room. Tucking my legs beneath me, I survey the Singhs’ extensive vinyl collection, because anything is better than acknowledging Jack at the present moment.

I’ve honestly never seen so much Creedence Clearwater Revival in one place.

I take another, larger sip of my whisky. It’s starting to taste better. Nutty and grassy and expensive. Or maybe I’m just drunker.

There’s a rustling sound as Jack stands up and crosses the room to sit cross-legged on the ground next to me. She leans in to press a fingertip to the thin sleeves of the albums. She’s sitting awfully close. Her forearms are right there. And God, she smells so good.

“God, you smell so good.”

Apparently, six fingers of whisky is enough to obliterate my inhibitions.

Jack stiffens beside me. “What do I smell like?”

“Freshly baked bread.”

Jack scoffs. “I definitely do not smell like bread. I haven’t baked bread in days. I probably smell like body odor and the Singhs’ organic laundry detergent.”

I shake my head. “No. No, you always smell like bread. It’s infused into your skin somehow.”

Jack laughs as her fingers stop fluttering over the edges of the records. She’s found what she wants. She plucks Dolly Parton off the shelf, and the record slides out of its case and onto the player with ease, her square-knuckled fingers adjusting the needle until “Here You Come Again” fills the cabin. Jack leans back on her elbows, because of course she does.

“A bit on the nose, isn’t it?” I point at the record player.

Jack takes a drink of her whisky. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, finally, “for kissing you in the bathroom last night. For putting you in an awful position with your brother, who I know you love. I… shit. I’m a fucking selfish, terrible person.”

She restlessly swirls her glass a few times, watching the brown liquid create a whirlpool. “The most confusing part of this whole thing is, I know you’re not a terrible person. Even when you ghosted me last year, I didn’t think you were a terrible person. I knew you.”

I chew miserably on my thumbnail. Jack sighs.

“So, why are you marrying a man you don’t love?”

Tell her the truth. “Because…”

“Because why?”