Page 179 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Forrest: Deli.

Daisy: He’s diversifying.

Forrest: He owes me $14.83.

Daisy: Add it to his tab.

Forrest: He says you’re his lawyer.

Daisy: As his legal counsel, I advise him to plead adorable.

Forrest: He’s already trying that.

Daisy: Smart client. Terrible financial planning.

Real is me building a business plan for a nonprofit with several tier structures in a document named Definitely Not A Life Choice, and Forrest adding comments at midnight like, Former players will donate if the ask is specific, and kids should never have to stand onstage while adults clap for helping them.

Real is his mouth against my shoulder in his apartment, my fingers tangled in his hair, Puck sighing dramatically outside the bedroom door because apparently every relationship needs one judgmental Victorian chaperone with paws.

Real is me telling myself, every morning, that we are still fake in public.

Which is technically true.

“Technically” has been doing brave work lately.

The drive into Winterberry Cove does not help.

Winterberry in November looks like fall got dressed for its final performance and intends to make everyone feel something about it. The trees are mostly gold now, with red clinging stubbornly at the edges.

The road into town curves past stone walls, white fences, pumpkin stands, and hand-painted signs advertising cider tastings, holiday wreath preorders, and one church bazaar that appears to have weaponized homemade jam.

The air through the cracked truck window smells like wet leaves, woodsmoke, cold earth, and the specific kind of apple cider that makes people think they can forgive their relatives.

They cannot.

That is a beverage, not therapy.

Forrest drives with one hand on the wheel and one holding mine.

Because three weeks of practicing fake dating, or pretending this is fake dating, or whatever cowardly little tax shelter we’ve built for feelings, has turned touching into something dangerous.

We could even call it normal.

His thumb moves once over my knuckles, like he isn’t thinking about it. Like his body has started making decisions without filing the proper paperwork. Mine, obviously, has responded with embarrassing enthusiasm because I am a woman of poor boundaries, seasonal anxiety, and excellent taste in men who grunt at muffins.

Missing him hurts now.

In the reaching-for-my-phone-before-I-remember-he-hasn’t-texted-yet missing way. The saving-him-the-last-bite-of-dessert way. The hearing-a-grumpy-man-in-a-book-and-thinking, Forrest would object to that adjective, way.

This is how disasters become habits—with hand-holding and a dog blanket.

Puck is in the back seat, snoring across a blanket I bought him after he stared at me in the pet store like a neglected prince.

“For the record,” I say, staring out the window as we pass the Winterberry Cove welcome sign, “it is deeply rude that the town looks this pretty while actively plotting my emotional decline.”

Forrest glances over. “The town isn’t plotting.”

“You say that because you didn’t grow up here.”