When we all got back to the cabin after the snowball fight, everyone separated to do their own thing. The grandmas went to warm up in the hot tub, Katherine disappeared into the kitchen to prepare the beef tenderloin for the bibimbap she was making for dinner, and Andrew went off to something called “the exercise room,” because apparently maintaining his hot bod required several hours of weights and cardio every day. Dylan and I decided to lounge in the living room—me working on the next episode of the comic, them working on lesson planning for after winter break. And Jack—she awkwardly hovered for a few minutes before grumbling some incomprehensible excuse as to why she needed to flee to the Airstream.

And I thought, Sure. Who doesn’t need alone time to recharge?

But it got weirder.

For movie night, Meemaw made popcorn and cranberry mules, and in an unwavering display of our coupledom, Andrew and I snuggled under a quilt on the sectional sofa. Jack sat in an overstuffed chair on the far side of the room, but she kept restlessly fidgeting. She only made it to the narwhal scene in Elf before she leapt out of her seat and announced she was going for a run.

At eight o’clock at night.

In the snow.

When we woke up this morning, Katherine proclaimed that despite what the schedule said, we wouldn’t be going to get the Christmas tree today, since she wanted to wait until Alan arrived tomorrow. Instead, Jack made pancakes for breakfast… and then didn’t eat them, claiming she was still full from dinner the night before.

When Jack asked Dylan if they wanted to take Paul Hollywood for a walk together, and Andrew and I decided to tag along, Jack abruptly decided she was “gonna sit this one out.”

And every time I went into a room for the past day, Jack promptly went out of it. For the past twenty-four hours straight, Jack has refused to look at me, refused to talk to me, and has barely left the Airstream.

I should be relieved. I’m not here for Jack; I’m here to convince everyone I’m in love with Andrew for two hundred thousand dollars.

Why am I not more relieved?

Unfortunately for Jack, the agenda for the afternoon is Christmas cookies: six hours, and as the resident expert in baking, she can’t excuse her way out of it.

Personally, five minutes into the process, and I’m already confused by the mechanics. “Is there usually this much weed involved in the cookie-making process?”

Dylan looks up from where their deft fingers are rolling an impressively large joint. “Do you usually bake Christmas cookies sober?” they ask, sounding horrified by the thought.