Page 44 of Fake it ’Til Fall

That’s worse.

Not the question.

The fact that I can hear what it costs her to ask.

Thorns do not beg. We invoice. We host. We press napkins into perfect folds and pretend dignity is genetic.

My mother asking for help is practically a medical event.

I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose. “It’s for work.”

Work.

I understand work.

Work is safe. Work has tasks. Work has deliverables. Work has checklists and invoices and no one asking why your ex’s new fiancée is texting you about vow placement like she didn’t once misplace her conscience in Liam’s bed.

“I’d need to talk to my boss,” I say.

“At the nonprofit?”

“Yes.”

“And Bea?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

“I couldn’t come for more than a week.”

“That’s all we need.”

Liar.

We are Thorns. We always need more than we admit. We call it refinement.

“When?” I ask.

“Wedding week. The first full week of November. We’d need you by Monday at the latest. Sunday night, if possible. Final walkthrough, welcome dinner, rehearsal, ceremony, brunch.”

“Brunch too?”

“Post-wedding brunch.”

“Of course. Why stop at one public emotional injury when we can add pastries?”

“Daisy.”

“Sorry. That was almost an inside thought.”

Mom sighs. “I know this is difficult.”

“I can manage difficult.”

“That’s what worries me.”

I don’t know what to do with that.