Isn’t excited.
Isn’t calculating.
She looks furious.
Good.
Honestly, that feels reasonable.
My phone buzzes again.
TOBY:If u keep doing sweet things like that, I’ll need a survival plan.”
LIAM:the internet named your fake daughter “tiny Colby”
JAMIE:Ignore them. Call me.
I finally hit Jamie’s number.
He answers immediately.
“You alive?”
“Barely.”
“That bad?”
“I think America adopted me overnight.”
Jamie laughs quietly.
I sink onto a stool at the kitchen island. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting. Toby’s already planning your fictional family Christmas card.”
“Tell him I’ll fight him.”
“Too late. He mocked your sweater choices for ten straight minutes.” That actually sounds accurate, he’s definitely do that.
I scrub my hand down my face. “This is a disaster.”
“No,” Jamie says thoughtfully. “It’s interesting.”
“That’s worse.”
“You looked happy.” The words land harder than they should.
Because the worst part is…
I had been.
Not fake happy.
Not media-trained happy.
Real happy: Jillie laughing on my shoulders, Sadie smiling despite herself, snow falling over Main Street.
For five stupid minutes, it had felt normal, and I haven’t felt normal in a long time.
