Page 1 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Prologue

Daisy

There are three things no one tells you about starting over in Boston.

One, rent will make you consider marrying for health insurance, closet space, or access to an in-unit washer and dryer. At this point, I’m not saying I’d propose to any moderately attractive man with central air and a Costco membership, but I would make eye contact for too long in the produce section.

Two, cobblestones are not romantic after a twelve-hour workday. They are ankle traps with historical significance and absolutely no respect for women in affordable boots. Paul Revere did not ride through these streets so I could lose a heel outside a Dunkin’ and pretend I meant to walk like a wounded flamingo.

Three, if you move to a city to prove you are fine, the city does not care. It will take your paycheck, steal one glove from every matching pair you own, and allow you to have a quiet emotional collapse beside a man eating tuna from a plastic container on the T.

Not that I’ve done that.

Recently.

And in my defense, the tuna man was breathing like he was training for the Olympics in mayonnaise consumption, so really, anyone would have cracked.

Thankfully, the Turning Page is warm when I push through the door for my evening shift, all coffee steam and cinnamon and old paper, which should feel comforting, except my left boot is making a small clicking sound with every step. Not a cute click. Not a chic, city-girl click. More like my footwear has reviewed my life choices and is trying to distance itself from me in public.

Which is fair. My footwear has seen things.

“Daisy,” Bea calls from behind the counter, her silver braid draped over one shoulder. “You’re six minutes late.”

“I’m cultivating a mystery.”

“You’re limping.”

“My boot is going through something.”

“One of you should.”

I point at her because I have no reasonable defense, and my personality is mostly finger-pointing under pressure. “That was hurtful, and unfortunately well-timed.”

Bea’s the boss. She owns The Turning Page, which is technically a café and technically a bookstore. Neither word quite covers it, though.

Not when the rain hits the windows. Not when the lamps turn everything honey-gold.

The place has floor-to-ceiling shelves along the left wall and mismatched tables scattered across old wooden floors. Two velvet chairs sit by the front window, both of them having witnessed more breakups than any therapist should allow. In the corner, there’s a tiny stage where local poets punish us with feelings every Thursday.

I love it here.

That is unfortunate because love, in every form, has proven financially irresponsible.

My day job is reputable. That’s what I tell my mother, at least. I’m the office manager for a nonprofit that runs literacy programs, after-school tutoring, and community grants. I manage donor records, calendars, reimbursements, volunteers, office snacks, printer meltdowns, and one executive director who uses “urgent” as punctuation.

It sounds impressive when I say it quickly.

It also pays like “nonprofit” is less of a tax status and more of a personal threat.

So, three nights a week—sometimes seven, depending on how aggressively my bills are flirting with violence—I come here after the office. I make lattes, restock books, wipe tables, sell pastries, and pretend my feet haven’t retained legal counsel.

They have. I saw them drafting a complaint this morning.

Bea looks me over. “Your phone’s been buzzing.”

I glance at my bag beneath the counter.

Of course it has.