Page 58 of Fake it ’Til Fall

I hate that word.

I hate even more that it still has power.

“I went to anger management,” I say. “I did the work. Isn’t that enough?”

Mark is quiet for a second.

When he answers, his voice is less slick. “It should be.”

That almost makes it worse.

“But it isn’t,” I say.

“No.”

Puck noses my hand.

I look down at him, and there he is. This ridiculous dog I didn’t plan on keeping. Another creature with a past people could read wrong if they wanted to. Teeth. Fear. Bad records. Too much energy. Too much need.

Someone had to decide he was more than the worst note in his file.

I just didn’t expect to relate to my dog this much.

“What are you suggesting?” I ask.

“Find someone who’ll come with you to Winterberry Cove and act happy to be there.”

“No.”

“She doesn’t have to lie much. Just support you through a dinner.”

“No.”

“Once you have the job and move there, you break up quietly.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We can find someone.”

“Jesus—” I stop, jaw locking, correcting myself before the word fully escapes. “No.”

“Leave it to me.”

“That phrase has never improved my life.”

“When do you need to be there?”

“First week of November.”

“Good. That gives us time.”

“No, Mark. There is no ‘us’ in this.”

“There is if you want this job.”

The silence after that is not polite.

It is ugly.