Kiss Her Once for Me (42)

Jack nods, too. Emphatically, her head bobbing up and down. “Good. Cool. Good.”

Someone comes crashing through the forest, and we both jerk our heads to see Andrew approaching with two snowballs. “Unhand her, you fiend!” And he launches the snow at his sister.

“I’m literally not touching her,” Jack says. “And we were on the same team.”

“Oliver, my pet.” He drops down in front of me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just… twisted my ankle.”

Without another word, Andrew gathers me into his arms and sweeps me away. And I have to admit: Dylan wasn’t wrong. Andrew is very good at being hot and lifting heavy things.

I tell myself not to look back at his sister in the snow.

But I do.





A Webcomic

By Oliverartssometimes

Episode 3: The Other Woman

(Christmas Eve, 1:32 p.m.)

Uploaded: January 7, 2022

“I think it’s time to introduce you to the most important woman in my life,” Jack says. She steps onto the snowy side street, her work boots sinking up to her ankles. “Elle, this is Gillian.”

She places her hand on the hood of an ancient pickup truck. “Gillian,” she says to the truck, “this is Elle.” She leans in close and stage-whispers. “But don’t worry. You’re still my number one girl.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Do you always talk to your truck?”

“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.

“That just seems like common sense to me,” she says. “And honestly, under normal circumstances, I would not advise that you get into a car with a stranger, either, but unfortunately, the buses have probably shut down already, so I don’t think you have any other option. Lucky for you, I happen to know that I’m not a murderer.”

These are reasonable arguments all around, and I finally hoist myself into the passenger seat of her truck. She jogs around the cab and climbs into the driver’s seat. Before she does anything, she hooks her phone up to an aux cord attached to an old cigarette lighter. The engine doesn’t sound any better than the rusty doors, and it turns over a few times without catching when she cranks the keys.

“Hang on.” She sticks her tongue out the side of her mouth as she leans into the wheel and tries again. When the truck finally sparks to life, her playlist clicks on, blaring “I Do Not Hook Up” by Kelly Clarkson.

“Did you time that?” I ask, gesturing to the speakers.

“I wish I had.”

“I forgot this song existed, honestly. This album defined the fifth grade for me. What?” I glance at Jack across the cab of her truck and catch her looking at me again. Looking at me like—