Kiss Her Once for Me (32)

“I–I don’t agree to those terms.”

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.

“Is that why you were crying? Because your parents don’t care?”

I inhale slowly through my nostrils. She just handed me so much of herself, and I’m not sure I know how to do the same. “It’s… something like that.”

She flicks her chin to get her hair out of her eyes, and I know this isn’t enough. I reach into my shoulder bag and pull out a pencil, like a security blanket. “Honesty. I just moved to Portland a month ago because I got a job at Laika Studios, and it’s been really challenging, way more challenging than I thought it would be. I’ve always been naturally talented as an artist. I mean, I’ve worked hard at it, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think I’ve had to work as hard as some of my peers. It’s come fairly easy to me. But at Laika, I have to work hard, and it’s been draining.

“I bought my mom a plane ticket so we could spend Christmas together, because with everything at work, I really didn’t want to be alone for the holidays. This morning, she called to tell me she didn’t get on the plane. She said it was because of the snow in the forecast, but she just met this new guy named Ted, so…”

I trace the tip of my pencil along my napkin, outlining a vague shape. “My mom has a pattern of putting her relationships with men before me, so I’m sure Ted is in line to become husband number four. Another failed marriage to add to her growing collection.”

“Do you really think that?” she asks abruptly. “That a relationship is a failure if it doesn’t last forever?”

My hand pauses over the napkin. “Well, I mean, isn’t forever the goal of marriage?”

Jack’s jaw tightens for a minute, and I study her profile as she turns to look out at the snow. It’s obvious I’ve said something wrong, but I’m not sure what it is. “I think marriage is just promising to love someone as long as you can for as best you can. I think relationships can be exactly what they’re supposed to be,” she says, eyes still on the snow, “even if they only last for one year, or five years, or even just for one day. The good parts of the time you spent with a person don’t go away simply because the relationship ends.”

“Isn’t that exactly what happens?” I think about my mother falling in and out of love a dozen times throughout my childhood, about all the heartbroken days when she lay in bed crying. I think about my one serious relationship, in undergrad, with a girl named Rachel Greenblatt. Even if there were some good moments with Rachel, they’re overshadowed now by the knowledge that I fucked things up between us, that I let things fall apart, that I failed.

“Is that the only reason you like art, then? Because you’re good at it?” Jack startles me with another abrupt turn in the conversation.