Chapter 9 #3
The café noise pulls back from the edges of the table. Her phone lies between us, Carla’s threat still glowing faintly before the screen goes dark. Puck breathes against her boot.
“You’re in a better place than you think,” I say.
She gives me a look. “Forrest, I’m broke because the one thing I had going for me—the vineyard—is in Winterberry Cove, where people judged me for not being enough.
My mother told me boys will be boys. As if the affair was something you sweep up after dinner.
As if betrayal is a spilled drink and not the thing that made me leave my whole life. ”
My hand goes still.
She keeps going, and I know enough not to interrupt.
“She didn’t defend me,” Daisy says. “Not in a way that mattered. Not out loud. She took the wedding because the money was good, and maybe because she was relieved I wasn’t there to make everyone uncomfortable with my inconvenient little heartbreak.”
Her laugh comes out dry.
“Did I eventually realize Liam wasn’t the love of my life? Yes. Congratulations to me. Growth. Therapy-adjacent realizations. Someone get me a mug.”
“Daisy.”
“No, it’s true.” She swallows and looks at the notebook instead of me. “It hurts because feeling like you’re lacking does terrible things to your self-esteem. But what still makes me angry is that I lost my life because he couldn’t keep his fucking dick in his pants.”
There it is.
The truth without ribbon.
“It wasn’t just him,” she says. “It was the vineyard. Harvest season which I missed—twice. The gift shop. Calling restaurants to ask if they’d carry our wine.
Organizing events. Knowing which aunties needed to be separated at family dinners.
I loved that life, and then suddenly I had to leave it all because everyone decided I was the awkward leftover. ”
Her fingers curl around the pen.
“I’m not mad that he’s happy,” she says, then makes a face.
“Okay, that’s not true. I am petty enough to wish him seasonal allergies and mild digestive distress.
But I’m still not in love with him. I’m mad that he got to keep the story.
I became the woman who left. The sad one.
The bitter one. The one people lower their voices around before asking whether she’s dating again. ”
“I hate this for you,” I say out loud.
Then I snort.
Daisy blinks. “What?”
I shake my head.
“No, you have to tell me. You can’t make a noise like a judgmental furnace and then retreat.”
“It makes me wonder if this is why Mark said I have a significant other.”
Her brows pull together. “You have a significant other?”
“No. He made that shit up.”
“Your agent?”
“And possibly my mother. The investigation is ongoing.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Forrest.”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re about to bake me something and stage an intervention.”
“I don’t bake. I assemble pastries with emotional intent.”
“Worse.”
She leans back, sandwich forgotten now. “So, they want you to show up with someone.”
“Apparently, a woman proves I’m rehabilitated.”
“That is horrifying.”
“Yes.”
“And wildly sexist.”
“Yes.”
“And very Winterberry Cove.”
“Also yes.”
She presses a hand over her mouth.
Then she laughs.
Not meanly.
Not softly either.
She laughs like the situation is so terrible it has become structurally impressive.
“Good luck finding an idiot to—”
She stops.
Her eyes change. I see the idea arrive. Daisy sits up straighter.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought loudly.”
“Maybe I have a solution.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I do.”
“You can’t. I’m complex and surprising.”
“You’re going to offer to be the idiot.”
Her grin flashes before she can stop it.
Fuck.
There it is.
The dangerous thing.
Hope dressed as a bad idea.
“I could be that idiot,” she says.
“No.”
“You help me. I help you.”
“No.”
“You need a fake significant other. I need to go home without looking like I’ve been defeated by love, rent, and orthopedic footwear.”
“Daisy.”
“We already know each other. Our families are already entangled. Puck likes me, which adds credibility.”
“Puck likes trash.”
“Then he has a wide emotional range.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.” She leans forward, eyes bright now, but not only with humor.
Something else lives there too. Fear. Want.
The first spark of a plan she knows might save her and hurt her in the same breath.
“But is it worse than whatever your agent finds? Because no offense, but I heard the word ‘optics’ in my soul, and I can already picture him hiring a woman named Brielle who owns a wellness brand and calls you babe in front of donors.”
I stare at her.
She’s not wrong.
Damn her.
“I’m not dragging you into my problem.”
“I’m already going to be in Winterberry Cove. I’m already organizing the dinner. I’m already emotionally compromised and underpaid.” She pauses. “Well, technically, I am now better paid. Still compromised.”
“No.”
“What could go wrong?” she asks.
I exhale through my nose. “Everything.”
“Great,” she says. “Then we should make a list so we avoid the wrongs.”
And that’s how I know we’re fucked.
Not because the plan is impossible.
Because for one second, I want to say yes.