Jack pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose with two fingers, and there’s something so unexpectedly dorky about the gesture, I almost don’t know what to do with myself. “I can go first,” she offers. “Ask me anything.”

A million questions fling themselves through my mind, like the platonic, anxiety edition of “36 Questions to Fall in Love,” starting with the most obvious. Why me? Why did you want to buy me coffee on Christmas Eve?

Why are you being so nice to me? Is it because you feel sorry for me?

Why can’t you sit still?

Why do you keep looking at me like that?

And What, exactly, do you see when you look at me?

“Why are you alone on Christmas?”

The woman named Jack takes a sip of her mocha. “I–I… I needed a break from my family this year.”

I mirror her caginess by taking a sip of my black coffee. “That doesn’t sound entirely forthcoming or within the parameters of your honesty game.”

She ruffles her hair and glares at me. “Yes, well. My family.” She takes another sip and fidgets in her chair. “Okay. Honesty? I can do honesty.” She takes a deep breath. “I’m the family fuck-up.” Jack makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, as if she’s revealing herself as an item during the Showcase Showdown on The Price Is Right. “I was always awful at school, which was hard on my parents, but even harder on my racist teachers, who took one look at my last name on the roster, realized I am Korean on my mom’s side, and expected me to be some kind of genius. Or at the very least, a quiet, obedient student, not a loud, outspoken slacker with ADHD and a heavy tread.”

“You do have a surprisingly heavy tread,” I note.

She continues to jostle her foot, and I fight the sudden, explicable urge to reach under the table and put a hand on her knee. I wrap my fingers around my warm mug instead.

“So, I hated school, even after I got the ADHD diagnosis and the right meds. The desks were too small, and there was too much sitting, and you’re supposed to learn stuff from reading a book? That’s a terrible system. But my parents wanted me to go to college, so I scraped by with the grades I needed to get into the University of Oregon, lasted for almost a year, and dropped out. Now I’m twenty-six, working for minimum wage, and profoundly disappointing my parents with every one of my life choices. And I just didn’t feel like facing their disapproving stares this Christmas.”

She finally takes a breath, and I fumble with some way to honor the vulnerability she’s offered me. “At least your parents care enough to be disappointed,” I try. I’m aware that it’s the complete wrong thing to say.