Lily loves to see the rooms Melanie books for me.
I snap a few photos, focusing on the bathroom. She loves the luxurious bathrooms that usually boast huge bathtubs and massive glass showers that I honestly find too large and cold. And maybe it’s the fact that I write murder mysteries, but they also seem like the perfect place for a gruesome murder scene. In fact, I’ve based a few murders off the hotels I’ve stayed in.
I attach the images and send them off to Lily.
Lily
OH. EM. GEEEEEE! That bathtub is practically a swimming pool!
Evan
Come use it then. I won’t.
Then my phone rings.
“You know I can’t! Don’t tease me like that!” Lily screams, forcing me to pull my phone away and rub my ear, hoping my sister didn’t just cause permanent hearing damage.
“I’ll book you a ticket,” I reply.
“Evan, you aren’t my only client. I have a lot of work to do,” Lily whines, but I can hear the way her voice tiptoes on the edge of diving in, on forgoing responsibility for opportunity.
“But aren’t I the most important client?” I ask.
I can practically hear her roll her eyes. “Duh, but I’m so behind on a few projects.”
“You work remotely. Can’t you work while you’re here?" I suggest, but we both know if she comes to Los Angeles, she will not be working at all. She’ll be stripping down to swimsuits and tank tops, parading around the city like she owns it.
But I want her here, and while I didn’t have enough leverage before getting here, now I have photos to show her what she’s really missing out on. Lily always has a hard time turning down reality when it’s this tempting.
I hear drawers opening and closing in her small apartment.
“Fine,” she says dramatically, as if this is an inconvenience. “But if you make me work for you while I’m there, I’ll quit.”
“I’ll book you the next flight out,” I say.
“First class,” she adds. “And I want to be paid extra to come.”
“You already told me you’re not working for me,” I remind her.
“I need comped for the flight time at least. Seventy-five dollars an hour,” she rattles off.
I groan. “How about this? I’ll make sure your favorite snacks are in the room when you get here?”
“And?” she questions.
“And a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive,” I add.
“Deal!” she squeals. “But I would have done it for the snacks.”
“I would have paid seven hundred fifty dollars an hour,” I say.
“You will be by the time I’m done shopping on Rodeo Drive,” she teases.
I smile because this is the life I’ve been able to give my sister—one where she knows she’s important and loved. Our parents, for her, are a ghost story. People who existed in a way that she wonders if they even existed at all.
“How’s Rachel?” she asks, interrupting a memory of holding Lily in our shared twin-size bed, shushing in her ear so she didn’t hear the cursing and screams.
But Lily’s voice is distant, and I realize she’s put me on speakerphone—one of my annoyances.
