Page 81 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“That is not what I said.”

“It captures the spirit.” Then, because I enjoy danger and apparently have no retirement plan, I add, “What about honey?”

“No.”

“Sweetie?”

“No.”

“My emotionally unavailable mountain?”

His eyes close, and he sighs.

“Too specific?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“My beloved hockey gargoyle?”

“Daisy.”

“You’re right. Too public. Very intimate. We’ll save it for anniversaries.”

“There won’t be anniversaries.”

“Anniversary of the lie, obviously.” I write anyway, amending it to:

Rule Eight: No pet names unless strategically required. Forrest vetoes ‘babe.’ Daisy reserves rights to ‘beloved hockey gargoyle’ in emergencies.

He reads it.

“No.”

“I wrote ‘reserves rights.’ That’s legally beautiful.”

“It’s legally nonsense.”

He takes the pen from me.

“Rule nine,” he says, voice rougher. “No using jealousy as a weapon.”

“You think I’d do that?”

“No.” His jaw works once. “I think people will try to make you.”

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

A miracle, honestly. Somewhere, a committee of concerned relatives has just felt a disturbance.

Forrest looks at the notebook instead of me. “Liam will be there. Carla will be there. Their families. People who enjoy watching other people bleed politely over appetizers.”

I stare at him.

He doesn’t look at me.

“So,” he says, “if you need me close, I’m close. If you need space, I give you space. If you want to leave a room, we leave. But we don’t perform for them just because they want a show.”