Katherine ignores the grandmas. “First Christmas tradition of the year!” She beams as we bundle up over our ridiculous sweaters and set out. I wonder if Alan Prescott ever wears his heinous Christmas sweater, or if Katherine has to photoshop him into these annual pictures.

The Kim-Prescott cabin is on an expansive piece of property at the top of a steep hill, and as far as I can tell, theirs is the only place for miles. We all trudge through the snow past the Airstream and Jack’s truck, toward the copse of trees that runs alongside a half-frozen stream. And for a split second, I forget about Jack, and I forget about Andrew and Dylan. I forget about my ruined ten-year-plan and the money that might save me. I forget everything but this. Snow. The beautiful magic of snow.

The woods are hushed by the thick layer of fresh powder, the silence and stillness punctured only by the sound of our boots crunching in unison. Everything is silvery and pure, and my cynicism goes out with a whimper. I’ve always loved this. The majestic white sweep of snow that makes the world anew, that makes the world feel slow and unhurried, like you can curl up and just be for a moment.

“What does your family usually do for Christmas?” Lovey asks, pulling me back to reality.

My gloved hand is intertwined with Andrew’s, because apparently hand-holding is his solution to selling our relationship. “I don’t really know. My parents aren’t really… around?”

Lovey crinkles her brow in a question she’s too polite to ask. Jack is out of earshot for the moment, clomping through the snow up ahead with Dylan and Paul Hollywood.

“They’re not dead,” I clarify. “They’re just… I’m not close with my parents, and I don’t have any other family,” I attempt to explain. “I mean, I do have other family, but most of them disowned my parents for getting pregnant with me out of wedlock, and then my parents held a grudge and didn’t let me see my other relatives growing up. Which would have been fine, but my own parents didn’t want to see much of me, either, so I was mostly just alone a lot as a kid.”

I stop blathering when Lovey reaches up to press a gloved hand to my cheek. I think she might be as lit as her sweater recommends, but the gesture is comforting all the same. Meemaw, hot toddy sloshing, declares, “Fuck ’em, sugar.”

I startle. “Excuse me?”