Sitting at a dinner table, keyed up for any slight she might make against her partner, is an unforgettable skill, apparently. Like bike riding, except Jess hasn't touched one since she and her brother would ride around the block. At present, she can tell something is amiss and it's because of her. Jess glowers resentfully into her glass as she empties it into her mouth, upended.

She didn't ask for any of this.

"Blonde hair," Jess provides neutrally, glass base thudding gently on the table. It seems she can't win, whether she's saying too much or too little, so who cares. "White guy. Matt's age, they went to college together." That's all the relevant information she has (that she shouldn't, considering her dutiful avoidance of both men in question), divulging to Kamala while concentrating on piling her utensils and plate together so she can take them to the sink. Jess jams the plug in and gets the water running so she can contribute to the meal by wiping all evidence of it from this earth.