Page 182 of Fake it ’Til Fall

He opens his door.

“Terrible boyfriend,” I mutter.

Puck launches himself from the back seat, nearly taking Forrest’s arm with him, and charges toward my mother like a furry ambassador with separation issues.

I climb out and immediately regret choosing boots with emotional ambition. The air is cold enough to sneak under my sweater and remind me that November is not here to be gentle.

Mom is already crouched to greet Puck.

Traitor that he is, he leans into her hands and closes his eyes.

“Oh, Puck,” she says. “At least one of you is happy to be here.”

“Mom.”

“What? I’m being welcoming.”

“You’re being observational with garnish.”

“Forrest,” she says warmly, rising. “Thank you for coming.”

“Mrs. Thorn.”

I turn to him. “Again with Mrs. Thorn? We discussed this. You sound like you’re about to ask permission to court me near a butter churn.”

Forrest looks at me. “You want me to call your mother Eleanor?”

“I want you to not sound like a tax auditor at a hayride.”

“Daisy,” Mom says, trying and failing not to smile.

“What? I am helping.”

“You’re undermining.”

“That’s a family language.”

Mom’s smile softens too much when she looks at me.

That is worse.

I am prepared for efficiency. I am prepared for vendor lists, flower emergencies, Carla’s mother having opinions about aisle timing, Liam’s mother pretending she invented taste, and my mother using the phrase “just one more thing” until I lose consciousness behind a barrel.

I am not prepared for softness.

Softness is how she gets past me.

“Well,” Mom says, clasping her hands together. “Let’s get ready for the wedding.”

The words hit harder than they should.

Not because I forgot.

I didn’t.

Hearing my mother say those words, as if that is all this is.

A wedding.