Page 2 of Fake it ’Til Fall

My phone only buzzes for three reasons: my mother asking if I’m eating enough, my bank sending me alerts with the emotional tone of a disappointed Victorian governess, or someone from my past choosing violence in lowercase text.

None of those are ideal.

I consider ignoring it, which is the closest thing I have to a wellness practice.

“Daisy,” Bea says.

“What?”

“You made the face.”

“I have many faces.”

“You made the one where you pretend you don’t know your own life is chasing you.”

I blink at her. “That is wildly specific.”

“It’s also the face you made when your landlord raised your rent and you tried to convince me you could survive on lentils and vibes.”

“I lasted four days.”

“You cried into a scone.”

“It was a rare, emotionally available scone,” I argue. “You don’t ignore that. You seize the pastry. Carpe gluten, or whatever.”

Bea folds her arms.

I sigh, reach for my purse, and pull out my phone with the enthusiasm of a woman retrieving a possum from a chimney.

The screen lights up.

And there it is.

Exactly what my evening needed.

Because apparently, starting over in Boston comes with a fourth thing no one tells you.

You can leave your old life behind.

Your old life, unfortunately, may still have your number.

“It’s probably work,” I lie, because I’m getting really good at that. You know what they say. Fake it ‘til you make it, or fake it until everyone stops asking follow-up questions, and you can go cry in a bathroom with flattering lighting.

“You’re at work.”

“My other job.”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t answer.”

Excellent advice.

Naturally, I ignore it, since my phone starts ringing again.

I pull it from my purse, and the screen lights up with three missed calls from my mother, one voicemail, and a text from my brother, Soren.

Soren: Call Mom before she calls me again. She just asked my assistant if I’m avoiding “a family matter of spiritual urgency.”

My stomach drops so fast it feels physical.