Page 60 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Of course it is.

Persistent little asshole.

Puck sees it and looks at me.

“Don’t,” I warn.

He wags his tail once.

“You and me both.”

I should call my mother and ask what the hell she said.

I should call Mark back and fire him.

I should text Principal Whitcomb and tell her I’ll attend alone, no support system, and no woman presented like proof of rehabilitation.

But then, what’s going to happen to my future?

I might not make it to the end of fall without an incident, fuck.

Chapter Nine

Forrest

For the past two hours, I’ve been wondering what I’m going to do with my life.

So far, the options are bad.

Option one, become the high school hockey coach in Winterberry Cove and let a room full of parents decide whether I have become emotionally safe enough to teach teenagers how not to skate into each other’s faces.

Option two, move to the woods and communicate only with Puck, squirrels, and whatever delivery driver is unlucky enough to deliver dog food.

Option three, join a circus and start juggling skates.

Blades, sure. People have done blades. But hockey skates? Untapped market.

At six-fifteen, I’m at The Turning Page.

This is not because I panicked.

This is because I was nearby.

Nearby meaning three blocks away, then two, then outside the door trying to convince myself I had not walked here with the purpose of seeing Daisy Thorn.

“Don’t judge me,” I tell Puck before opening the café door.

He walks in first.

The bell rings overhead. Warm air rolls out, cinnamon and coffee and old paper. Someone has added tiny pumpkins to the windowsill. Not the beverage kind. The good kind. Decorative. Quiet. No one’s trying to drown espresso in pie filling.

Bea looks up from behind the counter. “You’re early.”

I glance at the clock.

Six-twelve.

“No.”