I nod as if I understand anything about baking. I’m suddenly captivated by the way Jack takes charge of the kitchen, assigning everyone in the family different jobs, sending Katherine to the stove to heat up the skillets for the dasik and Meemaw to the stand mixer to work on the homemade frosting for the cutout cookies. The sight of Jack in her red apron, the strings tied around the dip of her waist. She’s wearing her glasses, which only make her more attractive, like a hot lesbian architect. The sleeves on her flannel are rolled up to her elbows, revealing the black swirls of tattoo ink on her arms, those glorious tendons that flex when she cooks breakfast in the morning, those fingers that move—Shit.

A tiny bit of weed, and my brain is already hyperfixating.

“Jack is an incredible cook,” Meemaw tells me, when she catches me staring at her granddaughter.

“Mmm,” I say in response, trying to focus on the dough Andrew and I are going to roll out, and not on the way Jack looks mixing the peanut butter with the sugar and melted butter.

“She works at a shop on Division, but she’s opening her own bakery,” Meemaw continues proudly.

All of my attention is back on Jack, watching her freckled cheeks turn the faintest hint of pink beneath her eyes. “Wait, you are?”

Jack shrugs one shoulder and pushes the hair out of her face. “Yeah, I am. Opening my own bakery, that is.”

I stare down at the mound of dough on the parchment paper in front of me. Memories attempt to overtake me, but I shove them back, not wanting to think about that day or that place—about the building she showed me when she told me about her dream. When Andrew passes the joint to me a second time, I accept it.

“And Jacqueline is opening the bakery all by herself, without any financial help,” Katherine notes as she meticulously roasts the sesame seeds.

“Mom,” Jack says, in a tone that suggests Katherine’s comment is something more than a casual observation. “It’s perfectly fine. I took out a business loan, and I have the money—”

“But you have to pay the loan back, and if the bakery doesn’t turn a profit… I just don’t understand why you’re willing to take this financial risk when your father’s company could invest—”

“I don’t want it to be a Prescott Investments business,” Jack jumps in. “I want it to be my business.”

Beside me, Andrew’s body is tense, tightly coiled. “Then your grandmothers could help,” Katherine continues.

Meemaw nods as she locks the stand mixer into place. “I’ve said I’d be happy to give you some startup money, just to get you on your feet until the bakery starts making money.”

For a moment, the kitchen is quiet except for the sound of the KitchenAid whorling the frosting.