Page 83 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Don’t be cruel. He got paid to look delicious, fictional, and like he pays attention during hard conversations.”

Forrest grunts.

There it is.

The grumpy grunt.

Possibly my favorite.

Deep. Difficult. Annoyed at the world, at me, at himself, and possibly at the concept of feelings requiring witnesses.

I point at him. “That grunt needs a footnote.”

“No.”

“That grunt had chapters.”

“It had no chapters.”

“It had a prequel.”

“It had indigestion.”

“From the sandwich agenda?”

“From this conversation.”

“Excellent. Then we’re both suffering.”

I write carefully, because my hand has decided to be dramatic:

Rule Ten: No falling in love.

Then, because I am me and I cannot leave a perfectly terrifying sentence alone, I add a comma and then the word, obviously.

“That’s all ten,” I say, flipping the pen between my fingers with the composure of a woman who has not just written a rule that feels like yelling at the weather.

He taps the notebook.

“One more.”

“There are ten rules. The title is very clear.” I, of course, write a title.

He growls and it’s beautiful to hear him bothered. “Then call it an amendment.”

“That sounds serious.”

“It is.”

I lean back. “Fine. State your amendment for the record.”

“No lying when it’s just us.”

I blink.

“We can lie to them,” he says. “We can do whatever this is in Winterberry. Hold hands. Answer questions. Let people think what they want. But here?” His fingers tap once beside the notebook. “The Turning Page. Puck. Coffee. This table. No lying.”

I shrug, because I have a deep commitment to pretending reasonable emotional standards do not affect me. “Very dramatic of you, though. Just for the record.”