Page 43 of Fake it ’Til Fall

It is, however, rent-changing.

Bill-changing.

New-boots-changing.

Buy-winter-gloves-changing.

Maybe even dentist-appointment-without-calculating-ramen-changing.

“That’s too much,” I say automatically.

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

“Daisy.”

“I don’t want charity.”

“It isn’t charity. It’s work.” Her voice lifts, and there she is again. My mother with the vineyard in her bones and the Thorn pride sitting right behind her teeth. “Work you’d have permanently if you hadn’t packed and left for Boston. This vineyard is your legacy. The Thorn business is something you and I built, and leaving because⁠—”

“Mom, I needed a reset.”

The words come out too fast.

Mira’s gaze drops to her folders, giving me privacy in the very public way women offer each other mercy at work.

“You might be okay with Carla and Liam’s wedding,” I continue, quieter but not calmer, “but the entire town decided to treat me as if I was lacking after he cheated. As if it had been my fault.”

“You are not lacking.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to them.”

I hate the way my voice breaks around the edge of it. Not crying. Worse. The almost-before. The humiliating little warning bell.

“You never defended me when it happened,” I say before I can stop myself. “You went with ‘boys will be boys’ and ‘there’s nothing to do but move on.’”

Silence.

My pulse bangs once, hard.

Okay. So maybe I am upset with my mother. Maybe a reasonable amount. Maybe the amount one might be when her mother takes the wedding booking of the man who cheated on her with a woman who has the emotional depth of a scented drawer liner.

Sure, money matters.

The vineyard matters.

Pride matters.

But I am her daughter, and it might have been nice to hear her say, Liam, you and your slutty-cheating-ass can go marry Carla somewhere else.

Just once.

As a treat.

Mom breathes in.

When she speaks again, her voice has lost the business edge. “Would you come to help me?”