Page 42 of Fake it ’Til Fall
“We need someone on-site,” she continues. “Someone who knows the full plan. Someone who understands the vineyard. Someone who can keep the families from turning the rehearsal dinner into an international incident.”
“I have a job.”
“I know.”
“Two jobs.”
A pause.
Damn it.
“Two?” she asks.
I close my eyes again because apparently vision is optional today.
“The café,” I say, trying for casual and ending up somewhere near caught. “It’s not a big thing. It’s part-time.”
“Daisy.”
“No, don’t Daisy me. I like it. Bea pays me. I get to be around books. Sometimes poets cry near the register, and I feel spiritually superior. It’s good for me.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Because I didn’t want you to look at me like Boston was a failed experiment.
Because I didn’t want Soren to send money before I could pretend I didn’t need it.
Because I didn’t want my mother to hear “second job” and translate it into “my daughter isn’t okay.”
“I just did,” I say.
Mom goes quiet.
Mira has stopped pretending not to listen.
On my monitor, an email notification appears from Carla Alden with the subject line: Quick Thought About Vow Placement!
Quick thought.
Carla Alden has never had a quick thought in her life. She has curated thoughts. Linen thoughts. Thoughts that arrive with reference images and a clean font.
“Daisy,” Mom says, gentler now, and I immediately hate it. “We can pay you more if you come in person.”
The back of my eyes burns.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not crying beside a bowl of caramel candies because my mother has finally discovered I am financially one charge away from becoming a cautionary tale.
“How much more?” I ask, which feels like swallowing a nail and asking if it comes in a gift box.
Mom names a number.
I sit down because my knees have formed a union.
That number is not life-changing. This is not a movie where someone offers me a check and suddenly my problems arrive at a boutique hotel with luggage and a redemption arc.
