Page 186 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I told her to send the bill.

She bit me.

So, contained.

The barrel room smells like oak, wine, damp wool from coats hanging near the door, and whatever candle Marlene insisted made the space feel “harvest-adjacent.” Daisy told her harvest-adjacent was not a scent category. Marlene said she’d consider alternatives. Then she moved the candle six inches to the left and called it collaboration.

Now the room is quiet.

Mostly.

Outside, rain taps lightly against the high windows. Somewhere near the tasting room, a delivery truck beeps as it backs up. Puck is sprawled beneath the registration table like a retired king, one eye open in case someone drops cheese.

The long tables are covered in linens, votives, small arrangements from Helena’s farm, and cards Daisy made that say things like Equipment Access Fund and Anonymous Family Support Request without turning need into a spectacle.

That was her phrase.

She said it in Boston while standing in the back room of The Turning Page, gripping her notebook like someone might take the idea from her if she let go.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it.

Daisy stands near the donor display table now, wearing jeans, boots, a sweater, and a focused expression that should probably require a warning label. Her hair is pinned up with a pencil. Three curls have escaped. She keeps blowing one away from her cheek and getting annoyed when it returns, as if her hair has chosen rebellion during business hours.

In front of her, the table has become something more than a display.

It is not big. It’s practical.

A way for someone to say, I need help, without making the whole room watch.

I’m standing in the barrel room looking at a donor table she built between wedding calls, family tension, and Carla’s mother asking whether candlelight could be more “emotionally flattering.”

“This is better than the dinner,” I say again.

Daisy sets down the stack of cards. “The dinner is the assignment.”

“No.”

Her eyes narrow. “That sounded like a full-sentence no. Historically dangerous.”

“The dinner is their assignment.”

“And yours?”

Mine.

For months, I thought the answer was becoming a coach.

The right to stand on ice again without people asking if I belonged there. I thought if a school board, parents, donors, and one small-town principal could look at me and decide I was acceptable, then maybe I could stop carrying every version of the man I used to be.

This job might let me coach.

But only if I keep proving I deserve the room.

The kids still need more than that.

Evan still needs gear. Someone else needs a ride. Someone else needs food before practice. Someone else needs a place to sit at a table and finish math homework before putting on skates.

None of them should have to wait for adults to decide if I’m polished enough to help.