Page 114 of Things We Fake
Everything was exactly as I had left it. The pale blue walls, slightly faded now, the wooden four-poster bed with its quilted comforter, and the bookshelves overflowing with dog-eared novels, textbooks I hadn’t touched in years, and old notebooks filled with my younger self’s handwriting.
My life was here, frozen in time.
I crossed the room, running my fingers over my desk, the worn wood smooth under my touch. My old corkboard still held remnants of the girl I had once been—photographs of me with my high school friends, a couple of dried grape leaves from the vineyard, a postcard from Italy I had once pinned there as a dream. And right in the center, an old Polaroid of me and Neil at prom, smiling as though we had the whole world ahead of us.
My heart twisted as I stared at his handsome face, blinding smile and shiny blond hair. He’d been the dream of every girl in school, and I was so besotted he’d picked me I’d been blind to everything else.
I reached for the photo and ripped it down. That girl was gone.
I stepped toward the antique mirror that stood by the window, its frame carved with delicate vines that curled around its edges. The glass reflected back a woman I barely recognized.
For years, I had been critical of my own reflection. I had studied my flaws with a microscope, wondering if I would ever be beautiful enough, thin enough, worthy enough. I had obsessed over my mother’s highcheekbones and elegant grace, and my father’s strong Italian features, trying to piece together where I fit between them.
Now, as I stared at myself, I realized something. I wasn’t just my parents’ daughter. I was me.
I had fought so hard to carve out my own life. I had pushed against expectations, made mistakes, taken risks. And here I was, standing in front of this mirror—not as the girl who had left Warwick in a cloud of shame, but as a woman who had built something for herself. A woman who had survived heartbreak and humiliation.
I touched my reflection lightly, my fingertips grazing the glass.
I liked who I was now.
The realization settled over me with the warmth of a heartfelt embrace. I wasn’t perfect. I wasn’t meant to be. And that was okay.
I didn’t need to be flawless. I didn’t need to be what anyone else wanted me to be.
And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t afraid to love the woman I was.
I decided to take a walk around the winery while I waited for lunch. I knew from many past experiences that my mother didn’t let anyone enter her kitchen when she prepared a holiday meal, so instead of offering to help, I did the only sensible thing—I stayed the hell away.
The crisp spring air greeted me as I stepped outside, carrying the familiar scent of earth and budding vines. A sea of grapevines stretched before me, their bare branches just beginning to awaken with the promise of new growth. I walked slowly, drinking in the view.
Everywhere I looked, memories waited. Summer afternoons spent picking grapes under the scorching sun. Autumn evenings sneaking sips of freshly pressed juice when my dad wasn’t looking. Winter mornings helping my mother dust snow off the old trellis, pretending I wasn’t freezing my fingers off just to spend time with her. No matter how far I’d run, Warwick was stitched into my bones.
As I rounded the corner toward the main barn, a blur of orange fur streaked past me.
“What the—” I yelped, catching my balance as a fat, disgruntled tabby skidded to a halt in front of me.
“Vinnie.” I sighed, hands on my hips. “Still like to scare the shit out of me, do you?”
Vinnie—short for Vino, of course—had been part of the Morelli household for over a decade. He was large, lazy, and utterly convinced he owned this place. He was also the most judgmental feline I had ever encountered. He sniffed at me, his green eyes narrowing in suspicion, before flicking his tail and turning his back on me. Then, just to assert his dominance, he flopped onto the dirt path, blocking my way completely.
I crouched down, scratching behind his ears. “I hope you’re still keeping the mice in check, old guy.”
A lazy, throaty purr rumbled from his chest, vibrating under my fingers. He stretched luxuriously, then turned his head to sink his teeth into my sleeve, a gentle but pointed warning that I had exactly three seconds before he was done with me.
“Okay, okay,” I chuckled, pulling back my hand before he could sink his claws in. “Still an ungrateful littlebastardo.”
Vinnie rolled onto his back, his belly exposed in what was undoubtedly a trap, then promptly lost interest in me altogether.
I shook my head, standing up and brushing off my jeans. “Some things never change.”
But as I looked out at the vineyard, at the house that had once felt like a prison and now felt like something close to peace, I realized some things do change.
Back at the house, I washed my hands and went down to lunch, lured by the incredible aromas. Roasted lamb, fresh-baked bread, warm wine, and the sharp tang of rosemary filled the air in a spellbinding mix. The dining table was covered in a pristine white cloth, the centerpiece an elegant arrangement of spring flowers and candles. My mother’s touch was in every detail, from the perfectly folded linen napkins to the polished silverware glinting in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows.
“You did all this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow as I slid into my usual seat.
My mom arched a brow back. “Of course not. What do you think I am, a miracle worker?”
