Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Daisy
By Sunday afternoon, I am back in Boston, restocking cinnamon tea, and pretending I did not leave part of my sanity in my childhood bedroom beneath an old quilt.
This is fine.
I am fine.
The word “fine” has always been one of my favorites because it is short, useful, and legally difficult to disprove. “Fine” can mean I slept eight hours and drank water.
“Fine” can mean I cried in a grocery store’s parking lot because the cashier asked if I wanted a bag and I forgot to bring mine.
“Fine” can mean I had sex with my fake boyfriend, fled my mother’s house before anyone could look at me too closely, survived breakfast with his mother by consuming two muffins and approximately nine hundred ounces of coffee, then drove back to Boston while holding his hand for a suspicious amount of interstate.
“Fine” is versatile.
I respect that.
I am less versatile.
I am one inconvenient feeling away from being shelved under seasonal distress.
“You’re doing the thing,” Bea says from behind me.
I stand in the little nook between the romance shelves and the front window, where Bea keeps the loose-leaf teas, seasonal mugs, tiny jars of honey, and the emergency chocolate she pretends is for customers.
The display is supposed to look cozy and autumnal.
At the moment, it looks like a woman with unresolved sexual tension and the emotional stability of a decorative gourd has taken out her feelings on herbal inventory.
“I do many things,” I say.
“This one is concerning.”
“I’m alphabetizing tea.”
“You put apple cinnamon under C.”
“For ‘cinnamon.’”
“It says ‘apple’ first.”
“It leads with vibes.”
“Tea does not have vibes.”
“This tea absolutely has a vibe. It’s wearing a scarf emotionally.”
Bea reaches around me, plucks the box from the shelf, and moves it under A with the quiet authority of a woman who has survived me before breakfast, lunch, and several poor life choices.
“There,” she says.
I stare at the corrected shelf.
“That felt aggressive.”
“It was alphabetical.”
“Same thing if you’re fragile enough.”
“You’re currently arguing with tea.”
“I’m processing.”
“Day, you’re officially spiraling.”
“I’m spiraling with product knowledge.”
Bea folds her arms.
I hate when people fold their arms at me. It suggests confidence. Boundaries. Adequate protein intake.
Three things I currently cannot relate to.
“Everything has a vibe,” I insist. “Puck has a vibe. Your espresso machine has a vibe. Forrest has an extremely complicated vibe with legal exposure.”
Bea sets a box of mugs onto the counter with more force than necessary. “Ah.”
“No.” I point at her as if forbidding her from becoming a woman with insight. “Absolutely not.”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“You ah’d.”
“That was a neutral syllable.”
“That was a syllable wearing reading glasses and holding a deposition.”
Bea folds her arms harder.
I hate when she does that. Bea is five-foot-five in clogs and a cardigan, yet she folds her arms like a woman who has personally outlived several empires and found them poorly managed.
“How was Winterberry?” she asks.
“Seasonal.” I shrug, because technically that is an answer, and “technically” is where cowards with good punctuation go to hide.
She narrows her gaze. “Seasonal?”
“Yes. Pumpkins. Rain. Family tension. Floral threats. Donuts. Very brand compliant.”
“And Forrest?”
I drop a tin of chamomile.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to betray my entire bloodline.
Bea looks at the tin.
Then at me.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I am trying very hard not to.”
“Try harder.”
She crouches, picks up the tea, and hands it to me. “How was Forrest?”
“Present.”
“Daisy.”
“Large. Grumpy. Useful with crates. Terrible at pretending not to brood near flowers. The mums resented him.”
“Did something happen?”
“No.”
The answer comes out too fast.
I immediately hate myself.
Not regular hate either. Full-body, why-am-I-like-this, someone-please-revoke-my-speaking-permit hate.
Bea’s eyebrows lift.
“Fine,” I amend. “Yes. Something happened. Several somethings. A whole municipal district of somethings. But not in the way you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking the fake relationship became less fake.”
“Then exactly in the way you’re thinking, but I dislike your accuracy.”
Bea’s expression softens in a way I do not appreciate. “Was it bad?”
“No.” I set the tea tin where it belongs. Under A. Because apparently standards still exist somewhere. “That’s the problem.”
“Good is the problem?”
“Good would have been manageable.” I grab another tin, then forget what it is.
Peppermint. Great. Even the tea is calmer than I am.
“Good is a movie you watch once and recommend to people at brunch. This was not brunch-friendly. Definitely not PG-13. Maybe not even suitable for a room with curtains.”
“I don’t need details.”
“I wasn’t offering details. I’m a lady.”
“You once described a customer’s breakup as ‘emotionally damp bread.’”
“That was literary.”
Bea waits.
I sigh and press the tea tin to my chest because apparently herbal inventory is my emotional support object now.
“It wasn’t bad. He wasn’t bad. He was—” I stop, because what am I supposed to say?
That I’d give him five stars, must repeat, excellent service, emotionally devastating amenities, would recommend to women with questionable judgment and a tolerance for grunting?
That he was everything a woman hopes for and absolutely nothing a woman with a fake-dating contract should discover in her childhood bedroom?
That he was hungry in a way that never felt like taking?
That he asked for words before touching me and meant it?
That afterward, he looked at me like he understood I had handed him something fragile and didn’t intend to be careless with it?
Absolutely not.
I am a lady.
A lady with no poker face, unstable tea organization, and a body that apparently believes “contract violation” means “fond memory.”
So I shrug and say, “He was Forrest.”
“Oh, honey.”
“No. Absolutely not. You are not Winnifred. Only one woman is allowed to ‘oh, honey’ me per fiscal quarter.”
“Did you call Winnifred?”
“No.”
“Did you text her?”
“Briefly.”
“What did she say?”
“Nothing useful.”
“What did she say?”
I look at the shelf.
Bea waits.
“She said the fake-dating force had been disturbed.”
Bea laughs once. “I like her.”
“You would. You both enjoy watching women form attachments against their stated values.”
The bell over the front door rings.
I freeze.
Not because I know it’s him.
There are dozens of people who can walk into The Turning Page on a Sunday afternoon. Students with laptop chargers. Tourists hunting for used books. Men who think ordering “just coffee” makes them interesting. Women buying romance novels face down like the cashier has not read worse and loved it.
It does not have to be him.
My body, however, has already formed a committee, taken attendance, and begun panicking with purpose.