Page 36 of Fake it ’Til Fall
“No, you’re not.” Her voice changes before she can catch it. Softer. Certain. Then she clears her throat and ruins it on purpose. “You’re many terrible things, Forrest Wolfcraft, but slow is not one of them.”
Something in my chest moves. I don’t name it. Naming things gives them rights.
“You always this generous when someone feeds you?” I ask.
“You bought me half a sandwich.”
“A full sandwich. You’ve eaten half.”
“Fine. You bought me a sandwich and then monitored it like a parole officer.”
“You were going to pretend coffee counted as dinner.”
“It has beans.”
“No.”
“Bean-adjacent.”
“No.”
“Bean-inspired?”
“No.”
Her mouth curves.
I keep my eyes on the book because looking at her when she smiles feels like putting my hand too close to an open flame and calling it warmth.
“Anyway,” she says, picking at the wrapper, “if you hate adjectives, romance may be too emotionally advanced for you.”
“I don’t hate adjectives.”
“You just insulted the atmosphere.”
“I insulted excess.”
“That’s rich coming from a man who communicates mostly through frowning.”
“Efficient.”
“Primitive.”
“Clear.”
“Emotionally bankrupt.”
I look up. “Careful, Thorn.”
Her eyes brighten, and there she is again. Not fine. Not fixed. But back in her body. Back in the rhythm. The banter puts a little space between her and the wedding, and I hate how relieved I am to see it.
“What?” she asks. “Are you going to report me to the Committee for Injured Masculinity?”
“No. They’re busy.”
“Annual conference?”
“Retreat.”
