Page 112 of Fake it ’Til Fall

The traitor.

“Oh,” Mom says, her voice warming. “Aren’t you handsome?”

I glance at her. “Do not encourage his vanity.”

Forrest shakes his head. “Too late.”

Puck leans harder into my mother’s hand, apparently deciding within six seconds that Winterberry Cove is his ancestral estate, and the rest of us are staff.

Mom looks from Puck to Forrest, then to me.

That is the dangerous part.

My mother’s eyes are not dramatic. They don’t widen or narrow like a woman in a cable drama. Eleanor Thorn’s eyes simply collect things. Details. Timing. Distance. The way Forrest opened my door. The way I’m holding my notebook like it contains legal immunity. The way he stands beside me instead of in front of me.

The way I’m breathing.

I can practically hear her filing everything into categories.

Daughter.

Wolfcraft.

Dog.

Possible betrayal.

“Darling girl,” she says, opening her arms.

I want to glare at her.

Where the fuck did “darling girl” come from? Are we performing some tragic vineyard play where I’m the returning daughter, Forrest is the brooding romantic lead, and Puck is the emotionally stable chorus?

I hope not. I’m already committed to one low-budget production called Fake It Until November, and the role is demanding enough without adding Shakespearean daughter to my résumé.

Still, I step into her arms.

Because what else can you do when your mother looks at you with love instead of disappointment?

Her coat smells like lavender, woodsmoke, and the hand lotion she has used since I was a kid. For one second, I am small enough to want this to be simple. Then she squeezes me a little too tightly, and the second passes.

“You’re too thin,” she says near my ear.

“Good morning to you too.”

I lean back and give her a look because last week on a video call she implied I looked like I was gaining. With my mother, there is always a correct size, a correct reaction, a correct way to be hurting that doesn’t inconvenience the room.

Just enough.

Never too much.

Never not enough.

Which is probably how I became a woman who can fit herself into whatever container people need. Daughter. Planner. Ex-fiancée. Emergency solution. Fake girlfriend with seasonal posture.

Look at me, unpacking generational damage after half a self-help shelf and a bookstore employee discount.

Bea says that isn’t the same as therapy.