Page 29 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Here, I’m Mr. Six-Fifteen. Or Haunted Bookshelf. Or that emotionally constipated table ornament, which Bea said once and Daisy laughed so hard she almost dropped a tray of mugs.

Here, I get coffee, a table, my dog under my feet, and Daisy telling me I’m reading wrong.

It’s stupid how much that helps.

“You haven’t turned the page in three minutes,” Daisy says.

I look at the book. “I’m absorbing.”

“You’re glaring at a fictional man’s abs.”

“They’re not fictional. They’re airbrushed.”

“Jealous?”

I glance up.

Mistake.

She’s watching me with that little tilt of her chin, like she knows she shouldn’t poke me and plans to do it anyway. Her hair is coming loose from its clip. Her apron is wrinkled. There’s honey mustard at the corner of her mouth again, and she has no idea.

I should tell her.

I don’t.

I’m not built for this. Whatever this is.

Bickering with Daisy is easy. It has rules. She pushes. I push back. She accuses me of being allergic to joy. I tell her joy is overrated and usually sticky. She recommends a book I don’t want. I take it anyway. She pretends not to look pleased. I pretend not to notice.

That, I understand.

This other thing—the part where I buy her dinner because Bea says she hasn’t eaten, then wants to put my hand between her and every person asking her to be gracious about betrayal—that part has no rulebook.

I hate games without rules.

I played seventeen years of professional hockey, and even at its ugliest, the ice made sense. Lines. Time. Penalties. Consequences. You hit the wrong way, you paid for it. You lost focus, you got exposed. You protected your goalie, your captain, your teammates. You kept your head up. You kept your hands ready.

Life off the ice is full of people smiling while they hurt you, then acting surprised when you bleed on the carpet.

Daisy knows something about that.

She just calls it wedding coordination.

Her phone buzzes again from the counter.

She doesn’t move.

I hear it because I’ve been listening for it, which is pathetic and none of my business. It’s been going off every few minutes since she walked in. Each time, something crosses her face before she hides it.

Daisy’s fingers go still on the napkin. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to say something reasonable and damaging.”

I sit back. “You think reason damages you?”

“I think reason is often used by people who want to make emotional crimes sound tidy.”