Page 162 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I feel seen.

Which is much worse.

Chapter Twenty-One

Daisy

By Sunday afternoon, I am back in Boston, restocking cinnamon tea, and pretending I did not leave part of my sanity in my childhood bedroom beneath an old quilt.

This is fine.

I am fine.

The word “fine” has always been one of my favorites because it is short, useful, and legally difficult to disprove. “Fine” can mean I slept eight hours and drank water.

“Fine” can mean I cried in a grocery store’s parking lot because the cashier asked if I wanted a bag and I forgot to bring mine.

“Fine” can mean I had sex with my fake boyfriend, fled my mother’s house before anyone could look at me too closely, survived breakfast with his mother by consuming two muffins and approximately nine hundred ounces of coffee, then drove back to Boston while holding his hand for a suspicious amount of interstate.

“Fine” is versatile.

I respect that.

I am less versatile.

I am one inconvenient feeling away from being shelved under seasonal distress.

“You’re doing the thing,” Bea says from behind me.

I stand in the little nook between the romance shelves and the front window, where Bea keeps the loose-leaf teas, seasonal mugs, tiny jars of honey, and the emergency chocolate she pretends is for customers. The display is supposed to look cozy and autumnal. At the moment, it looks like a woman with unresolved sexual tension and the emotional stability of a decorative gourd has taken out her feelings on herbal inventory.

“I do many things,” I say.

“This one is concerning.”

“I’m alphabetizing tea.”

“You put apple cinnamon under C.”

“For ‘cinnamon.’”

“It says ‘apple’ first.”

“It leads with vibes.”

“Tea does not have vibes.”

“This tea absolutely has a vibe. It’s wearing a scarf emotionally.”

Bea reaches around me, plucks the box from the shelf, and moves it under A with the quiet authority of a woman who has survived me before breakfast, lunch, and several poor life choices.

“There,” she says.

I stare at the corrected shelf.

“That felt aggressive.”

“It was alphabetical.”