CHAPTER 6: Terms and Conditions

SLOANE

I woke up on December 28th with a kids’ menu pinned to my fridge and the distinct feeling I had lost my mind.

The crayon looked even more ridiculous in daylight. THE HOLIDATE PACT in Jackson’s careful block letters. Twelve holidays. Three-second kiss maximum. No feelings. No exceptions. Our signatures at the bottom, like we’d just bought a house, instead of agreeing to a year-long performance.

I stared at it while the coffee brewed, waiting for the panic to hit.

It never really did.

Instead, a calm settled in. The kind of calm that comes right before you do something irreversible.

By noon he texted.

JACKSON: Coffee? Need to lock the story before New Year’s.

ME: Brew & Bean on Clark. One hour.

I showered, threw on black jeans and yet another black sweater (my wardrobe is basically a funeral director’s mood board), and drove.

He was already there, corner table, two black coffees waiting. He slid one across as I sat.

“Figured you still take it like an adult,” he said.

H