Prescotts

“I’m not quirky. I have generalized anxiety disorder, and trust me, there is nothing cute about it.”

“Dude, this is Portland. We all have GAD. Get yourself a therapist already.” “I have a therapist,” I mumble. Her name is Anna, I see her twice a month through an online service. Based on the fact that she told me I’m “thriving” at our last session, she’s obviously awful at her job.

Andrew drives a Tesla,

“Like, he has floor seats to the Blazers,” Andrew starts, “but did he ever let anyone use his tickets when he was in Europe? Never. The seats would just sit there, empty. And he banned me from the vacation home in France because of one incident involving absinthe, even though what happened to the head on that fountain sculpture wasn’t even my fault. And nothing I did could ever live up to his impossible expectations.”

I stare at his hand, hanging out on my knee uninvited. I’m not sure if this is an old-man-in-a-bathtub situation or simply how allosexual people express gratitude, but I cross my legs so his hand has to fall away.

“I—I wasn’t crying.” They arch a second eyebrow, creating a look of surprise on what I’m beginning to notice is a rather attractive face. “You know I can see you, right? There are still tears in your eyes.” They gesture to my friend. “And you told this footstool you’re crying.”

“I can’t believe I told you to find a himbo and you actually did it. And in a classic Ellie overachiever move, you took it a step further and got engaged. We should talk about your perfectionist tendencies at some point, but I’m honestly proud of you.”

“I’m just poor, you asshole,” I say as I sling my shoulder bag across my body and reach for my duffle. “Don’t criminalize poor people.” He looks positively aghast. “I’m not! But Oliver, this is horrible. Quite possibly the worst thing I’ve ever seen. And I once spent two weeks on a party boat sailing around the South Pacific with twenty guys from my frat, and the plumbing stopped working on day three.”

The truth is: the world is full of selfish people who become selfish parents. It’s hard to explain to anyone who grew up with stability and safety and guaranteed love what it’s like to both hate your parents and desperately want their love at the same time.

“This is not a cabin! It’s a fucking ski chalet!”

“Is she having a stroke?” Meemaw wonders. “I’ve had a stroke,” Lovey throws in. “This ain’t it.”

It’s Jack. Jacqueline. Jacqueline Kim-Prescott, apparently. I’ve agreed to marry the brother of my one-night stand from last Christmas.

“You forgot I’m also rather gifted at making fuck tons of money for people who already have fuck tons of money.” “I could never forget that, you capitalist pig.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me that I’m being irrational?” She turns to face me, so close, our noses almost brush. “Is that something that helps you when you’re having a panic attack? Being told you’re irrational?” “God, no.”

“Do you usually bake Christmas cookies sober?” they ask, sounding horrified by the thought.

“I’m not a bonder,” I say. “I don’t bond.” “You’ve bonded with me.” Andrew grins. “Besides, you’re going to be sisters soon. Might as well get in some quality girl time.”

As soon as we get back home, I flee to the nearest bathroom to cry on a toilet seat about it. It is, at least, a nice bathroom for crying. The kind with a gilded mirror and expensive soaps and vases full of decorative rocks. I sit on the closed toilet seat with my head in my hands, letting the tears leak down between my fingers as I try to catch my breath. I’m not even sure why I’m crying. This doesn’t change anything.

Meemaw swirls her drink and makes a knowing click of her tongue. “Something silly like… the fact that you had sex with my granddaughter last Christmas?”

They’re also wearing a T-shirt that says, “Merry Capitalist Consumer-Driven Corruption of a Pagan Fertility Holiday.” Because there is nothing Dylan Montez loves more than ironic juxtapositions.

“I didn’t ‘give women a try,’ Mom. I’m bisexual.” “Not anymore, apparently. Now you’re getting married!”

free hand clutches at my throat. The whole lumbersexual thing suddenly makes perfect sense because good lord. Watching Jack chop that piece of wood in half is the single most arousing thing my demisexual brain has ever witnessed. Even though her muscles aren’t visible through her flannel, I can somehow sense the way they ripple, the tendons in her neck straining, her hands flexing against the handle of the axe. Some primal instinct in me says, This one could build you shelter. I press my legs tightly together and clear my throat. “That was… good.” She rolls her shoulders, and I stifle a whimper. This night will definitely end with my death.

I also take a sip of whisky. It tastes like barbecued nail polish remover and goes straight to my head. Why does anyone drink hard alcohol neat?

Simon and Schuster

“For me?” Jack echoes, like she must have misunderstood the cruel irony of that claim. “You lied to me for me?”

“I’m moving forward. I’ve showered. I’ve put on a real bra.” I gesture to my damp hair and fully supported breasts in turn. “Progress is being made.”

“Your mom sucks the most suck of all the people who suck that aren’t, like, war criminals or Republican senators.”

“By ‘party,’ you mean eat Sour Punch Bites, drink hard cider, and rewatch all of Gilmore Girls, right?” “Obviously.”

Every single Brideshead housemate is in therapy, and they all refer to their therapists by their first names and talk about them in casual conversation. It’s weird, but in a good way.

“I convinced myself that someone like her could never love someone like me, so I self-sabotaged in the most epic way possible by assuming we weren’t meant to last. And I did that twice.”

(“A hedge fund?” I asked. To which Dylan scoffed, “I know, I truly can’t take him anywhere in this city anymore.”)

“Shit. She’s seen me. What do I do?” “Um, go talk to her?” “What? No. Gross.” “Continue standing in the doorway like a weirdo, then. You’re right, that’s a better plan.”