Page 17 of Fix Me Up

Daisy: I told you, nothing shocks or offends me. Safe space.

Me: Fine. Love Island.

Daisy: Oh boy. Nice knowing you.

Me: Told you.

Daisy: Just kidding. Where should I start if I want to catch up?

Me: From the beginning, of course.

Daisy: You are full of surprises, Owen Mosley.

Me: Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

Daisy: The jury’s still out. Go to bed, farmer, I know you’re lying. And I’ve got some reality TV to catch up on.

I let several minutes pass, staring at her contact photo in my address book, switching back and forth between that and re-reading everything she wrote tonight.

I tap out one last reply before I shuffle off to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

Me: I checked with a medical malpractice attorney and I have good news. I’m still, technically, not your patient.

Who knows what’s behind her “lol” that follows. But it’s enough for now.

chapter

seven

Daisy

In his OshKosh overalls and tiny boots, Graham is a pretty adorable mascot for Owen’s stall at the Saturday farmers market.

I’m about to wander over and admire the zucchini when an effortlessly pretty, tanned woman in a sundress floats over to Owen’s stall. I glance down at my tattered cut-off jeans, coffee-stained tee-shirt, and ghost-white legs which haven’t seen the sun in ages, and start to feel some kind of way.

I stand motionless at the native plant stall and watch as the woman in the sundress leans over in front of the folding table that separates her from Owen, practically putting her tits on display for him.

Ugh, what is wrong with me? Where’s my sense of female unity? The woman is probably just saying hi to Graham, who’s just walked up with a fistful of blueberries in one hand and a stuffed animal in the other. He looks freaking cute, just like his dad.

Yes, I said it. Objectively, Owen is a good-looking dude. Friends say that about each other, right? I don’t have anything against this woman. And I don’t have any claim on Owen even if she is flirting.

I watch her jiggle one of Graham’s chubby little fingers and say, “Oh my gosh, you’re the cutest little farmer!”

Owen says something I can’t quite hear, sending her into a fit of laughter and hair twisting.

As for me, I’m hiding amongst the hanging Boston ferns, watching Owen and the sundress lady’s conversation. I must look like a psychopath.

Owen blushes. He never once turned red with me during our conversation at the diner. Of course, because that was just a friendly lunch. And why would I want to make him blush? I have my dignity; I don’t flirt, and I don’t put my goods on display. What if I could do that, though? Maybe I’d get more dates if I aired the girls out more often.

Lord, where did that thought come from?

Seriously, why should I change my personality? I like who I am, coffee stains, ratty jeans, and all. I mean, who wears a sundress to the farmers market anyway? Instagram influencers and faux trad moms, am I right?

Careful, Daisy. You’re being super judgmental. You’re a girls’ girl, remember?

I take a sip of my iced chai to keep me from blurting out a curse.

As I’m sipping through my straw, the woman in the sundress leans over again and picks up a huge, purple, bulbous eggplant. A slow smile spreads across her face. No. No, no, no. She’s not doing what I think she’s doing. She’s not going to be sexually suggestive about a damn eggplant. Not in front of the kid. Not in front of the kid!

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