Page 111 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“He loves everyone with functioning hands.”

“She’ll think that’s a sign.”

“It’s a dog.”

“It’s Winterberry. Dogs are never just dogs. They’re omens with tails.”

Puck reaches Mrs. Thorn and sits directly in front of her like he has an appointment.

Mrs. Thorn bends to pet him.

Daisy groans.

“There it is,” she says. “He’s chosen a side.”

“He’s getting scratched behind the ears.”

“That’s how alliances begin.”

Mrs. Thorn looks from Puck to Daisy, then to me.

Her smile widens.

Not too much.

Just enough to tell me she has already assessed the dog, the car, the distance between me and her daughter, and probably whether I own a decent jacket.

I have faced playoff crowds with less evaluation.

Daisy straightens beside me and pastes on a smile so bright it should come with a warning label.

“Ready?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “But I have lip balm, a notebook, and generational anxiety. That’s basically a starter kit.”

Then she steps forward.

So I do too.

Chapter Fifteen

Daisy

There are several ways to survive walking toward your mother with a fake boyfriend, a rescue dog, and a lie large enough to qualify for its own zip code.

One, keep your shoulders back.

Two, smile like you are not currently reconsidering every decision that led to this exact fall-decorated porch.

Three, do not let the dog make better emotional choices than you.

Unfortunately, Puck has already betrayed me.

He sits at my mother’s feet like he has been summoned by vineyard law, tail sweeping the porch boards, eyes full of devotion, enormous head tilted upward as if Eleanor Thorn is the patron saint of ear scratches and inherited property.

My mother bends and rubs behind his torn ear.

Puck closes his eyes.