Page 56 of Fake it ’Til Fall

He sneezes.

“Helpful.”

I call Mark, who answers after the second ring.

“Wolfcraft,” he says. “What’s happening?”

“I got a call from Principal Whitcomb.”

He chuckles, as if this is good news and not an organized attack on my blood pressure. “We knew this would happen. They want the hometown angle. The redemption arc. Local boy comes back to lead the next generation. It’s good.”

“She thinks I have a significant other.”

Silence.

Not confused silence.

Caught silence.

“Oh,” he says.

I stare at the door. “Oh?”

“Well.”

“Mark?”

He clears his throat, and his tone shifts into the one he uses when he’s about to explain something he knows I’ll hate. “During the conference call, she asked how they’d know you’ve changed.”

“It’s been more than a year and a half,” I say. “I moved. I went to anger management. I worked with the PR team. I stayed out of trouble.”

“You’re growling.”

“This is how I speak.”

“Exactly my point.”

I close my eyes and count.

Puck huffs.

“Your PR company has been very clear,” Mark says. “The anger-management classes help. The therapy helps. The public apology helped. But people like narrative. Especially in a small town. A man alone looks unstable to them. A man in a healthy relationship looks settled.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Sure.”

“Don’t sure me.”

“It’s bullshit that works.”

I hate him.

Not permanently.

Professionally.

“Small towns like a good story,” he continues. “In this day and age, people like visible happiness. Stability. Proof you’re not one bad day away from becoming the old headline again.”