Page 113 of Fake it ’Til Fall

Bea is correct.

Unfortunately, rent and therapy are not currently on speaking terms.

“This place is beautiful,” Forrest says, as if he’s defusing a family heirloom before it explodes.

Smart man.

Mom’s gaze moves to him. “Forrest Wolfcraft.”

“Mrs. Thorn.”

She looks between us again, and I hate how pleased that makes her.

“Well,” she says. “Come in. We have coffee.”

As we walk toward the entrance, Forrest leans closer, voice low enough for only me. “You okay?”

“No,” I say brightly, because commitment to performance is important in community theater and fake dating.

His eyes hold mine. “You’re hurting.”

I exhale through a smile. “But functioning.”

“Good.”

“Don’t get attached to my honesty. It visits briefly and leaves no forwarding address.”

“Noted.”

We follow Mom inside.

The Thorn house is old in the way New England houses are old, meaning every floorboard has an opinion and one door upstairs has never closed properly despite three generations of men insisting they fixed it.

The kitchen is big and bright, with windows looking out over the vineyard rows and the lake beyond. Copper pots hang above the island. Tiny pumpkins line the windowsill like they’re waiting to be assigned tasks.

I used to do homework at this island.

I used to steal cinnamon rolls from that counter.

I used to stand barefoot on these tiles while my father taught me how to make coffee too strong because, according to him, weak coffee is how the day knows it can beat you.

The thought comes too fast.

Dad.

The kitchen does this sometimes. Keeps him in corners no one warned me about.

“Cider donuts,” I announce, clapping once because tears before breakfast would be gauche and also deeply inconvenient. “Please tell me there are cider donuts.”

Mom studies me for a second too long. “There are cider donuts.”

“Wonderful. I can survive emotional ambushes if fried dough is involved.”

Forrest looks down at me. “Useful information.”

“Vital, actually. Put it in the contract.”

“Which one?”