“Don’t hit me with that judgmental tone. You converse with random footstools. At least Gillian and I have an established rapport.”

“I know you don’t want to be stereotyped, but—” I wave my hand in a circle in front of the red truck. “This ancient red pickup truck is very cliché. Wait. Gillian? As in Gillian Anderson?”

“Is there another Gillian?”

“Because she’s a reddish-brown color?”

“And because while some might argue she was in her prime in the nineties, I think she keeps getting better with age.”

Jack wrenches open the passenger door, and the hinges release an unholy sound. “Come on.”

“Where are we going now?”

After Powell’s, Jack had dragged me through the snow to Voodoo to try a maple-bacon doughnut, insisting that even if it is slightly overhyped, it is still a crucial pilgrimage for every new Portlander. As we walked, we played the honesty game. She told me more about her parents and their expectations for her life, which never quite fit with who she is as a person; about visiting distant relatives in Seoul as a kid and feeling she didn’t quite fit there, either; about her favorite pies to bake (marionberry and lemon meringue) and her favorite pies to eat (chocolate pecan and key lime).

And I told her more about my parents and their total lack of expectations, and how that never quite fit with who I am as a person; about my mapped-out life plans; about the loneliness of moving to a new city, even though I’ve been alone most of my life.

She talked about her dog and the chicken coop she was building in her friend’s backyard.

I talked about Meredith and how I didn’t think bacon belonged on doughnuts.

Somehow, two hours passed, and two new inches of snow accumulated around us. We were hanging out as friends, just as friends. But sometimes, I would turn and catch Jack’s burning eyes on me in a way that felt nothing like friendship.

Now, Jack stands beside her truck. “We’re going home.”

My heart vaults into my throat. “I can’t go home with you,” I say with less chill than intended. “I–I don’t go home with people on a first, um…”

Jack smiles. “I am going to drive you to your home,” she says, gesturing toward me with her palms up. “And then I will go to my home. Because this is clearly shaping up to be a much bigger snowstorm than forecasted, and we’re going to get snowed out if we don’t get home soon.”

“Oh.” I stare down at my feet submerged in the snow. “Sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“For not wanting to…”

“Go home with a stranger you met three hours ago in a city you’ve only lived in for a month?”

I nod.