Page 10 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Mira follows my gaze.

“That’s depressing.”

“It has almonds.”

“That’s not a defense.”

“It has little dark chocolate pieces.”

“Daisy.”

“I’m eating after work.”

“At the café?”

“Yes.”

“During your second job?”

I open my mouth, then close it because I am not currently accepting thoughtful criticism. My emotional inbox is full. Please submit all concerns in writing and expect a response in six to eight business years.

The thing is, everyone says “second job” like it is inherently tragic, but I like The Turning Page. I like the smell of cinnamon and coffee. I like Bea’s muttered insults, the old books, the regulars, the tiny stage where poets overuse the word “ache,” and the table by the window where someone leaves pencil notes in the margins of donated romance novels as if they are in a long-term argument with happily ever after.

The extra paycheck helps, obviously.

Bea also feeds me once a shift, which reduces the number of times I stand in grocery aisles doing math that feels too personal.

Okay, fine.

The extra paycheck is the main reason.

But liking the place makes the exhaustion feel less pathetic.

“I’m fine,” I tell Mira, which is what I say when I am not fine but would prefer the room not to vote on it.

She looks at me for a second too long. “You know, ‘fine’ is not a personality.”

“It can be if you moisturize daily.”

Her mouth twitches. “Eat something that isn’t a fundraising cheese cube before the end of the day.”

“Hey, I respect cheese cubes as a protein-adjacent concept.”

“Daisy.”

“Fine. I’ll eat something with an actual expiration date.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s what I can offer.”

She sighs, which is fair. I’m exhausting to love. I know this because I also have to live with me and, frankly, I would not renew the lease.

Then my phone lights up again with another email from the wedding folder, and whatever almost passed for honesty folds itself away.

Chapter Two

Daisy