Page 11 of Fake it ’Til Fall

By five-thirty, I have fixed the printer, updated the grant numbers, ordered more office snacks with money we do not have, apologized to a volunteer who thought RSVP and FYI were interchangeable, and answered six wedding emails with enough calm that I should qualify for diplomatic immunity.

By six-oh-three, I’m power walking toward The Turning Page with my tote bag smacking my hip, my hair escaping its clip, and my brain running through Liam’s seating chart like a woman trying not to admit she still remembers where his family likes to sit.

By six-fourteen, I push through the café door and get hit by warmth, coffee steam, cinnamon, and the scent of old pages.

For one second, my body believes it’s safe.

Then my phone buzzes in my tote.

Of course.

Because peace has never respected my calendar.

The Turning Page hums around me with low conversations, clinking cups, and rain tapping at the front windows. Bea stands behind the counter, wearing a cardigan and the expression of a woman who has already survived three customers asking whether oat milk is “too political.”

“You’re early,” she says.

“I’ve evolved.”

“You have mustard on your sleeve.”

Damn it.

I look down.

There it is, a yellow streak near my wrist. Not a subtle one either. A bold statement. A condiment with confidence.

“I’m becoming a woman who eats while walking,” I say. “There’s a learning curve.”

“You look like the sandwich won.”

“It did. But I made it work for the victory.”

“You should put that on a résumé.”

“I already have. Under crisis management.”

Bea’s eyes move past me toward the back corner, and her mouth does a terrible thing.

It twitches.

I don’t like when Bea’s mouth twitches. It’s never about anything helpful, like a surprise inheritance or someone deciding rent should be illegal. It’s always about me, being observed against my will.

“Your boyfriend is here,” she says.

My steps falter.

My body betrays me first. Not dramatically. Nothing worthy of a sonnet or medical attention. Just a pause. A tiny catch in the rhythm of my feet before my common sense grabs the wheel and reminds everyone on board that we are not doing this.

“He is not my boyfriend.”

“Fine.” Bea wipes the counter with one slow sweep. “Your daily, emotionally-constipated table ornament is here.”

I stare at her.

Not amused.

Not even café-adjacent amused.