Chapter Eight

Saturday, December 17, 2022

I can’t believe she’s here.

Or maybe I can’t believe I am here.

I can’t believe that of all the people living in the Portland metro area, Jack and Andrew are related.

Not just related. Siblings.

The woman I met last Christmas Eve is standing ten feet away across an ornate dining room table in a goddamn ski chalet. For almost a year, she’s lived exclusively in my memories and in my webcomic panels, but now she’s here. Ten feet away. And I have her grandmother’s orange lipstick on my cheek.

“Meemaw! Lovey!” She pulls her grandmothers into one joint, enthusiastic hug. “Merry Christmas!” she says in that voice. That voice. Low and rough, like the feeling of her callused fingers on the back of my neck. Loud, like she’s never afraid to take up space. “I brought rice cakes!” She holds out a cookie tin, and both grandmas absolutely lose their shit.

She hasn’t seen me yet, vibrating with nerves and sweating profusely beside her brother, our hands still intertwined. Five minutes ago, I was surrounded by the loving embrace of three older women, pleasantly contemplating the possibility of falling in love with a man who might let me be part of his family traditions. And then, Jack.

Jack’s outside voice. Jack’s heavy-footed stomp. Jack once again barreling into my life without warning. She’s not wearing her glasses, and her eyes burn so bright in her face, I feel myself heat up beneath my clothes.

Paul Hollywood barks three times, and as I turn to face him, he leaps up onto his hind legs, pressing his front paws to my thighs and bodychecking me backward into the table. I release Andrew’s hand and stumble directly into Katherine’s floral centerpiece.

“Jacqueline, darling. Please control your dog.”

“Hi, Mom.” Jack plants a kiss on her mother’s cheek. Then: “Paul Hollywood, sit.”

The dog promptly drops his butt onto my feet. Jack glances up, and I watch as her dark brown eyes pass over my face. They narrow, barely, her mouth ticking in the corner. “What—?”

Andrew steps between us. “Jacqueline, this is my fiancée. And this is my sister.”

The fire keeps crackling and Bing Crosby keeps singing and Paul Hollywood’s tongue keeps wagging, but I feel like the entire world grinds to a halt in my bones. Jack is looking at me, and I’m looking at her, and I’m waiting for her to say something, anything, to give us away.

Confusion flickers across her beautiful face. I would give anything for her to be less beautiful than I remember.

“Hi,” Jack says, outstretching a hand toward me. “Sorry, I think I missed your name.”