Page 5 of Fake it ’Til Fall

As if returning to Winterberry Cove wouldn’t be walking straight into a room where everyone remembers exactly who I was before I tried to become someone else.

“Absolutely,” I say, laughing lightly.

The sound embarrasses me. It’s too high and a little cracked around the rim. Very charming. Very woman-one-inconvenience-away-from-becoming-a-cautionary-chipped-mug-on-a-sale-rack.

“Don’t do the voice,” my brother says.

“What voice?”

“The one you use when you’re standing in the middle of a fire and complimenting the curtains.”

I press my lips together.

The worst part is that he isn’t wrong.

“I’m not in a fire,” I say. “I’m in a bookstore. Completely different emergency exits.”

“Mom will probably ask you to be there.” He clears his throat. “They’re marrying at the vineyard.”

For a second, I don’t understand the sentence.

Then I do.

“Why,” I ask carefully, “are we hosting the fucking wedding?”

See, I don’t scream with rage. Growth. Maturity. A woman evolving, probably.

I do, however, squeak on the word “wedding.” Not a dignified squeak either. More like a dog toy discovering betrayal. The woman at table four glances over her laptop with the nosy concern of someone who will absolutely tell her group chat, and honestly, fair. I’d tell mine too if I had enough emotional stability to maintain friendships through regular texting.

Soren’s voice dips. “His mother requested it. They’re paying double the rate.”

“Double,” I repeat.

“Mom has to keep up appearances.”

“And the money is good,” I add.

He doesn’t answer fast enough.

There it is again. The little space where truth sits down and makes itself comfortable.

My family’s vineyard isn’t failing, exactly. The Thorns don’t use words like “failing.” We use phrases like “lean season,” “cash-flow constraints,” and “community loyalty.” We put flowers on the table and pretend the table isn’t wobbling. Very elegant. Very inherited denial with seasonal centerpieces.

Soren has offered to help Mom, and Mom has refused to accept said help. Her pride is a load-bearing wall no inspector would approve, but everyone keeps decorating around it like that makes the cracks less obvious.

“No need to keep me there, though,” I add, because my pride is an unpaid intern and still working overtime. I learned it from my parents.

You can call it “generational trauma, but make it artisanal.” We Thorns don’t ask for help. We quietly bleed into monogrammed napkins and call it tradition.

“You know how to do weddings better than anyone else who works for Mom.”

I close my eyes.

“She’s going to try to persuade you,” Soren continues. “Probably with a cut from the wedding.”

“I don’t need that.”

The lie is immediate. Reflexive. Practiced enough to deserve health benefits.