Page 132 of Fake it ’Til Fall

She has moved past a category.

Past ‘woman from the café.’ Past ‘fake girlfriend.’ Past ‘Thorn.’ Past ‘complication with a notebook and a mouth that should come with warning signs.’

I know the sound she makes when she’s about to laugh but refuses to give me the satisfaction. I know when her smile is real, when it’s for customers, when it’s for family, when it’s for survival. I know she taps her pen twice before saying something she’s afraid might matter. I know she feeds Puck the crusts of her sandwiches when she thinks I’m not looking. I know she apologizes to furniture when she bumps into it, then gets mad if anyone notices.

I know all that.

I don’t know her favorite color.

I don’t know if she had this room when she was twelve or twenty-nine. I don’t know if she lived here before college or during whatever part of her life Liam ruined with clean hands and a friendly voice.

I don’t know what she wanted before she became the woman who turns pain into schedules. I don’t know if she sleeps on the left side of the bed, or if she reads before falling asleep, or if she wakes up slowly, or like the world has already asked too much of her.

But I want to know.

That irritates me more than it should.

Wanting things has never improved my life.

Wanting makes a man stupid. Makes him miss the hit coming from the side. Makes him forget where the exits are.

Daisy opens the door.

The room is not what I expected.

I’m not sure what I expected. Pink walls, maybe. Childhood clutter. Something frozen in time. A museum of the girl Daisy used to be before Boston, before Liam, before she learned to smile like it cost her nothing.

Instead, the walls are pale cream. There’s an iron bed against the far wall with a quilt folded at the foot, the squares faded from years of washing. A narrow bookshelf leans near the window, packed with paperbacks, old school notebooks, framed photos, and a ceramic pumpkin with a chipped stem. A desk sits under the slanted ceiling, covered with vineyard menus, a dried flower in a glass bottle, and a lamp with a crooked shade.

It smells faintly like wood, rain, and lavender detergent.

Puck trots in like he owns the place, sniffs once, then circles twice on the rug before collapsing with a sigh.

Daisy stands in the doorway as if she’s trying to decide whether she left part of herself here and whether she wants it back.

“Well,” she says, too brightly. “Good news. No dolls staring into your soul.”

“Low bar.”

“I had a porcelain phase. Brief. Terrifying. Like bangs.”

“You had bangs?”

“Emotionally, I still do.”

I look at the bed.

One bed.

Of course.

The universe has decided maturity is for other people.

Daisy follows my gaze and lifts one hand. “Before you say anything, I did not personally design this ambush. I would’ve requested a trundle. Or a tasteful fainting couch. Maybe a chaise lounge.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“You were thinking very loudly.”