8. Eight
EIGHT
My apartment was a mess. An absolute cesspool of … filth.
Okay, it wasn’t filth. It was clutter. Between Lucy’s items, which she refused to put away, and the packing boxes, which I was still working on, the apartment looked as if there had been an explosion at some point and they were still looking for survivors.
I couldn’t take it much longer.
Lucy didn’t care, though. She had three suitcases to her name. Two of them she parked in the living room, and the other she took to the guest room, which she was calling her room, even though I told her she wasn’t staying with me long term. She, apparently, felt otherwise.
“Lucy!” I bellowed as I slammed my shin into one of the boxes she’d moved to make a pathway through the mess.
I appreciated that she was trying to help, but if she really wanted to help — she certainly wasn’t looking for a job or contributing to our financial situation — she could have started unpacking.
Did she, though? No.
“Lucy!” I screeched a second time.
She appeared in the doorway of her bedroom. The guest bedroom! Man, now I was doing it. “You screamed?” she drawled.
She was in a pair of tiny panties and an even tinier camisole. No bra. No pants.
“Why are you still in your pajamas?” I complained.
“Why not?” she asked on a shrug.
“It’s five o’clock in the afternoon.”
“So, it would be an absolute waste to get dressed now,” Lucy said reasonably. “Besides, I’m going out tonight. I won’t get dressed for a few more hours.”
Somehow — and I was still confused how this had happened — but in the two weeks since she’d moved in with me, she’d somehow managed to put together a new friend network.
Not one friend or two. We’re talking 10 to 15 on any given night.
I hadn’t even met a single new person outside of the author circle I was hanging in, and I’d been here a week longer.
“You’re going out at eight o’clock at night?” I asked dubiously. “That doesn’t seem productive.”
“Oh, you sound like Mom,” Lucy complained, a huge sigh escaping. “I’m not old like the two of you.”
“I’m not old!” I was offended at the suggestion. “I’m merely responsible.”
“You say potato,” she sang out blandly.
I forced myself to take a deep breath to calm myself.
Lucy had little sister energy. Even if she weren’t my little sister, she would have irritated me.
It wasn’t her fault that she’d grown up with almost no parental guidance, however.
My mother had been much older when she had Lucy, so she hadn’t boasted the same energy as she had with me.
And Mick? Well, he didn’t feel he should interject himself in parenting issues.
He helped when we needed it — like when I moved into college one year and packed way too much stuff for one dorm room I had to share with two other people — but otherwise took a step back and let my mother make the decisions.
I knew why he did it, of course. Lucy and I had different fathers.
Lucy’s father sent child support when she was growing up, but he rarely saw her.
Mine didn’t bother to send child support and essentially disappeared off the face of the earth when I was five.
Mom never talked about him. Lucy’s father was a different story.
She badmouthed him at every turn without realizing how detrimental that was to Lucy.
It was a whole big thing.
Lucy was the way she was because nobody had ever told her no.
The nannies gave in to her every whim just to keep her quiet.
It was no surprise that she’d grown up with no sense of urgency.
Everything had been done for her by somebody else.
Every little thing she wanted had been provided.
That’s why getting a job — and keeping it — was so foreign to her.
“And how is the job hunt going?” I asked, pinching the bridge of my nose to ward off an incoming headache.
“I’m on it,” Lucy said, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Didn’t I say I was on it?”
“Yes, two weeks ago,” I agreed. “Meanwhile, I’m the one paying all the rent. I’m the one buying all the groceries. I know you took the money that was on the counter for the laundry delivery the other day.”
Lucy had the gall to look wounded. “I thought that was a thank-you gift. It’s not my fault you didn’t tell me what the money was for.”
“Thank you for what?”
“For coming here to help you.”
“I didn’t need any help.”
“You’re cute.” She patted my cheek. “You have that author event tonight, right?” She was clearly trying to change the subject.
“I have a book signing,” I clarified. “It’s at an area bookshop. I’m going to be gone a few hours.”
“Okay. I’m sure I’ll be gone when you get back. Don’t wait up for me.”
I wouldn’t dream of it. “You could start unpacking some of the boxes before you head out,” I suggested. She wasn’t going to take initiative and do it herself, even though I was on deadline and the move had already drained away some of my writing time.
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.” Lucy solemnly shook her head. “Those are your items. You should be responsible for putting them away.”
I considered arguing with her — what I really wanted to do was kick her out — but instead I just shook my head. “Try not to make a lot of noise when you get back tonight, huh? I have an early day tomorrow. I need to get a lot of words in so I can catch up.”
Lucy was already tuning me out because she offered up a familiar goodbye wave. “Have fun.”
I left her to do … whatever it was she was going to do. There was no point trying to shame her. She was who she was. Essentially, my mother had ruined her. And, yes, I’d contributed to the ruination. There was no fixing her now, though. I had to accept it. Period.
Right?
MY AGENT CASEY LENNOX WAS ALREADY at the bookstore on Whitaker Street when I arrived.
“You’re late,” she scolded, although there wasn’t a lot of heat to her words. “The readers are already lining up.”
They were? That was sort of exciting. “I didn’t realize there would be so much interest,” I admitted as I smoothed the front of my shirt.
I’d gone with a simple fitted black tee because I was prone to dropping food and drinks on myself.
This way, if I splashed coffee — or whatever it was they were serving — then I would be covered.
“Of course there’s interest.” Casey tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear. I liked her a lot — she was friendly and fought for me constantly — but she had hair like a helmet. It was blond and never moved. Even in a windstorm, I feared it would keep its shape. It was … disconcerting.
“What’s up with this?” Casey waved her hand over my face.
Confused, I looked for a mirror to see my reflection. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Do I have food on my face or something?”
“I wish.” Casey wrinkled her nose. “You’re just … kind of messy.” Her hands moved toward my hair to start smoothing it.
She wasn’t the first person to say that to me. She wouldn’t be the last either. That was my mother’s biggest knock when I was growing up.
Why do you have to be so messy, Wylie? Have you ever even heard of a brush?
In truth, my mother actually encouraged me to be somewhat messy. She said the most interesting people in the world were messy. However, there was a time and place for messiness, and reader events were not that time or place.
“Sorry.” I finger-combed my hair, which was wild and out of control today. “Lucy stole my hair mousse so I couldn’t cut down on the frizz.”
“Your sister sounds like a menace,” Casey complained.
“Oh, she is,” a male voice said from behind me, almost causing me to come out of my skin. “Never try to reclaim your Kit Kat from her, either. She’ll do bodily harm to protect it.”
I turned quickly, my hair flying, and came face to face with Huxley. He was the last person I wanted to see. “What the hell?” I demanded, my mouth getting ahead of me. That always happened too, so nobody — including myself — was surprised. “What are you doing here?”
Huxley, who was dressed in khaki pants and a polo shirt, not a hair out of place, furrowed his brow. How was it that he looked so effortlessly put together when he likely put in less mirror time than I did, and I was still considered messy? I hated it.
“Um … this is the book signing, right?” He glanced at Casey. “Josh gave me this address and time.”
“Who is Josh?” I blurted.
“My agent.” Huxley’s lips quirked as he regarded me.
“I just … I’m not being weird,” he offered as he leaned closer.
Suddenly, he was all up in my space. “You just have something in your hair.” His fingers brushed my scalp, and I felt something jolt through me, straight to …
someplace the jolt shouldn’t be going where Huxley was concerned. He came back with a plastic wrapper.
I snagged it and glared at him.
“Smarties, huh?” he said, shaking his head. “I remember you used to always have a pocketful of those things when we were kids. I never got the appeal.”
It was a dig, plain and simple. “Yes, I’m sure Smarties are outlawed at The Landings,” I agreed in a snarky voice. “Only Cadbury will do.” Cadbury? That was an expensive brand of candy, right? I was almost certain it was.
“Like … those eggs you get at Easter that look like they have yolks?” Huxley wrinkled his nose. “I don’t like those.”
“I happen to love them. They’re like Easter candy crack.”
He looked as if he wanted to smile, then swung his gaze to Casey. “I’m a last-minute substitute, I believe. Josh couldn’t make it down in time, so he said you would be acting as an organizer for me as well.”
Casey nodded briskly. “Yes, that’s right.”
This was all news to me. “I thought this was a signing just for me.” Did that sound whiny? I didn’t want to whine in front of Huxley. That would make me look weak.
“I’m sorry.” Casey looked legitimately contrite. “I didn’t realize you thought that. It was always a dual signing. It’s just that Margot Corning had to cancel because her only daughter went into active labor and she’s going to be a grandmother for the first time.”