By the Book (The Last Picks #7)

Chapter 3

Hemlock House was getting surprisingly full—Bobby and I still had our own bedrooms, and Millie had commandeered one for herself to get ready. In theory, Keme should have been sleeping in yet another, but he liked his privacy—and the illusion that he was somehow pulling one over on the rest of us—so Bobby and I had agreed to let him keep sleeping in the secret room he’d taken over. I could have put my parents in the bedroom I’d used my first night at Hemlock House, but instead, I took a ghoulish delight (which Bobby clearly noticed and disapproved of) in putting my parents in the master suite—Vivienne’s old bedroom.

After helping them carry their stuff in and finding lamps and candles for them to use (big surprise: Hemlock House had an abundance of them), I tried to make my escape.

“We’ll let you get settled,” Bobby said to my parents from the doorway. “Unless you need anything?”

“How could they need anything?” I said. “You already unpacked their moving van.”

That might have been a slight exaggeration, but only by a little. My parents had driven across the country in an RV that had been packed to the gills with luggage, computers, and books (of course). There was barely room to walk—no wonder they’d stayed in a bed-and-breakfast. To my horror, the RV was also full of musical instruments. Apparently my parents had discovered new—and loud—ways of being the center of attention: in this case, something called medieval folk music . They told me they’d promised Mrs. Shufflebottom, the head librarian, that they’d perform at the auction. I decided that would be a good time to take a bath with a radio. (Except the electricity was off, so it would have just been a cold and uncomfortable bath.)

“You know your father has a bad back,” my mom said. “Thank you again, Bobby.”

My dad stood in the doorway that connected with the bathroom. He was swinging the door—testing its structural integrity, I guess?—and in a tone of rapturous satisfaction, he declared, “Fantastic construction. They don’t build them like this anymore.”

“They didn’t ever build them like this,” I said. “Nathaniel Blackwood was a lunatic. Oh, speaking of which, I guess I should warn you there’s a secret passage. I hope you don’t get murdered in your sleep.”

“Come on,” Bobby murmured.

“I forgot about the secret passage,” my mom said. “Jonny, did you bring the UV flashlight?”

“I’m two steps ahead of you,” my dad said, already rummaging through one of the million boxes that Bobby (and I) had carried upstairs.

Maybe Bobby saw the look on my face. Or maybe—because he’s sensitive like that—he simply understood now was an ideal time to shut the door.

“I’m going to kill them,” I said. “I’m going to kill and murder and parricide them. And there’s a secret passage, so nobody will even be able to prove I did it. How many knives do you think Indira will let me borrow?”

But Bobby caught my arm and, ignoring my squawk of protest, steered me into his bedroom.

Even though Bobby and I had only been officially together for a couple of months, the boundary between his room and my room was eroding quickly. In part, that was because we’d already been living together. And in part it was because once Bobby and I had gotten over our respective, uh, hurdles, everything had felt so easy. We slept together most nights in my room, unless Bobby was working, and then he used his room when he got home. Having double the storage space for clothes (and, in Bobby’s case, expensive sneakers) was nice, so we’d kept our belongings separate. But Bobby had his own phone charger in what was quickly becoming our room. He’d moved his alarm clock in there. (Why someone needed an alarm clock when they had a phone was questionable to me, but apparently Bobby really, really, really didn’t want to oversleep.) He was even officially allowed to keep the remote for the TV on his nightstand, mostly so he could turn it off instead of letting me binge another episode of Fire Island . The biggest—and clearest—distinction was that Bobby’s room was always clean and organized and, well, pristine. And I liked things to be…cozy.

He released me once he’d shut the door behind us. Then he folded his arms and fixed his gaze on me.

“I can still escape through the bathroom,” I said. “Or the window.”

“Try it.”

I decided I wasn’t going to try it. Primarily because Bobby would be faster than me. But only because of those fancy running shoes, not because I wasn’t, um, in shape.

“I swear to God,” I said, “I didn’t know they were coming. I’m so sorry, Bobby. I never would have surprised you like that. God, aren’t they the worst? Did you hear my dad ask me about the grass? He didn’t even let me answer—he just wanted to tell me about his grass. Do you know how many conversations I’ve had in my life about grass, Bobby? Too many. Any number of conversations about grass, or about grass seed, or about lawn fertilizers or the best mowers or how to use an edger—anything above zero is too many.” He still hadn’t said anything, so I added, “Please don’t be mad that they showed up like this. And please, please, please let’s talk about something else until I can calm down.”

“What’s going on with your parents?”

“You heard them! They’re the guests of honor.”

“Mrs. Shufflebottom didn’t ask you first?”

There may—and I cannot emphasize enough: may —have been an email inquiring about my parents’ availability. And a phone call. And a text. But I was busy. And, like any optimist, I had hoped that by ignoring the problem, it would go away.

A little too late, I said, “No.”

“Uh huh. We’ll deal with that later; I’m talking about the rest of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean from the minute they showed up, you’ve been acting like it’s World War III.”

“It’s nothing. It’s fine. They’re being annoyingly intrusive lately, which let me tell you, is not a great change from annoyingly neglectful.”

He didn’t say anything. But he didn’t look away either. That’s Bobby for you.

“They’ve been calling me nonstop,” I said. “They always have questions about my work, my career, when am I going to finish this manuscript. And here’s where it gets worse: now they want to read it. Give constructive feedback. Make sure I’m headed in the right direction.”

Bobby seemed to think about that before saying, “The novel?”

I nodded.

“And you don’t want to show them.”

“No. Because if I do, they’re going to dissect it. You don’t know what they’re like. They’re insane. I mean, they’re trying to help. They think they’re helping. And everything they say will be logical and reasonable and—and correct . And then that’s it. The end. The next time I try to work on that story, their voices will be inside my head. No matter what I try, that’s all I’ll hear. It’ll be ruined—trust me, it’s happened before. The only way it works is if I give it to them after it’s done.”

“Okay.” Bobby seemed to think some more. “So, don’t show them. You’re an adult. You’re entitled to your privacy, including your writing.”

“Yeah, well, that’s the plan. It’s a little trickier since they showed up unannounced and are now living under the same roof.”

It was actually slightly more complicated than that, but I wasn’t ready to tell Bobby the, uh, full extent of the situation. My parents had been supporting me financially for the last few months. They’d gotten it in their heads that the money gave them leverage. And so, until I showed them I was making an active effort to complete my manuscript, no more money. Which was why the lights were off.

But telling Bobby that would have meant: a) exposing how completely incapable I was of taking care of myself, and b) sending Bobby into Mr. Fix-It mode.

I settled for saying, “So, um, about my parents? I’m sorry?”

“It’s fine, Dash. I’m glad I get to meet them. I’m more worried about getting the power back.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

He shook his head. “You’ve got enough on your plate.”

“No, Bobby, I can—”

“I’m going to do it. We’re a couple. You need help, so let me help you.”

That was exactly the last thing I wanted, but his expression was so earnest that all I could do was nod.

“Good,” Bobby said.

A knock echoed up from downstairs—and it must have been a very heavy, very determined knock to make it through those thick old walls.

He chucked me under the chin and said, “Sounds like they’re ready to set up for the auction. Shake a leg, sweetheart.”