Page 203 of Fake it ’Til Fall

It is a dangerous word.

A cozy word.

A word wearing socks and carrying a future it has not yet shown me.

I pull the tape from my mouth. “Fine. Our son is vain.”

Puck wags his tail.

Forrest looks at him. “He gets it from you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You own four lip balms.”

“That is preparedness. My mouth has seen winter. It has a trauma response.”

“And a mug that says you’re the plot.”

“Bea gave me that mug because she respects narrative truth.”

Forrest makes a sound that is almost a laugh.

A month ago, I would have congratulated myself for earning that sound. Now I hoard it quietly, like an emotionally stable woman with a secret savings account of his almost-smiles.

He checks his watch, again.

I narrow my eyes. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You’ve checked the time seven times, reorganized the takeout menus, and asked Puck if he was ready.”

Forrest looks at the dog.

Puck looks back with the calm confidence of an accomplice.

Interesting.

“Ready for what?” I ask.

“Christmas.”

“Christmas is tomorrow.”

“Christmas Eve counts.”

“You hate imprecise language,” I say, suspiciously.

“I’m evolving.”

I narrow my gaze and tap my foot. “That is suspicious. Men do not evolve this close to cabinetry without cause.”

Forrest wipes his hands on a dish towel even though his hands are dry.

Oh.

Oh, no.