Page 153 of Falling for the Fake Lumberjack

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I glance at the bottle of wine I forgot to open last night because I passed out fully clothed at 8:30 p.m. Which reminds me: I have to finish doing my laundry!

My phone dings again.

Lucy:

You would be working—but at least you’d be on the lake.

Lucy:

You deserve this. Seriously.

I hesitate. Then pull up the reservation site.

And what do you know? There’s a cancellation. This weekend, Friday through Sunday. Quaint cottage with a screened-in porch, fireplace, and—my favorite part—a hammock. What? I’m going to sit in that hammock, sway like I don’t have a care in the world even though I have a million problems. Relaxing won’t be one.

Before I can second-guess myself, I book it and text Lucy:Booked the cottage. You’re a terrible influence. Never stop.

I’m going full cottagecore.

I guess there’s only one thing left to do: Pack. Snacks. Sweaters. Bug spray.

And maybe I’ll pack a little less anxiety. Because this weekend?

I’m not bringing my to-do list.

I’m bringing marshmallows and vibes, and I’m not wearing a swimsuit when I sunbathe on the pier.

Who even am I?

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