Page 9 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Inside, the printer blinks at me like it knows about my credit score.

My phone buzzes again.

Mom: Just circling back. Carla is hoping to finalize by EOD.

EOD.

My mother has started using corporate abbreviations.

There truly is no bottom to the madness that’s my life.

Soon she’ll be saying things like “circle back,” “bandwidth,” and “let’s take this offline,” which is how I’ll know I’ve died and gone to a networking brunch where everyone wears beige.

I sit, set the toner down, and type back before I can think better of it.

Keep the runner. Add two tables only if we shift the bar service closer to the east terrace and reduce the lounge seating by the fireplace. Ask Carla if she prefers clean sight-lines or a room where everyone can sit like they’re waiting at an airport gate.

I read it twice, delete the airport gate part, then replace it with something less likely to get me removed from my mother’s will.

Happy to mock up the layout tonight.

There.

Perfectly professional.

Mildly dead inside, but in a tasteful way.

“Please tell me you’re not working on the wedding again,” Mira says, appearing beside my desk with her mug in one hand and a stack of mail in the other.

I lock my phone like it contains state secrets, my search history, and every lie I’ve ever told while using the phrase totally fine.

“I’m not working on the wedding again.”

“You said that too fast.”

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re underpaid, overcommitted, and one parking ticket away from becoming a cautionary folk tale.”

“That’s hurtful and oddly lyrical.” I glare at her. “Plus, I don’t have a car, so it would be impossible to get a parking ticket.”

Mira drops the mail onto my desk and studies me with the expression of a woman who recognizes burnout the way some people recognize bird calls. She’s in her early fifties, terrifyingly competent, and has the rare ability to make you feel cared for while telling you to stop acting like a martyr.

“Daisy,” she says.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You used my name in the tone.”

“What tone?”

“The tone people use right before suggesting rest, boundaries, or lunch.”

“Have you eaten lunch?”

I glance at the corner of my desk, where a granola bar has been sitting since Tuesday, still sealed because opening it would require accepting that it counts as a meal.