“But do I care?”
“Jesus. Just buzz me in already. It’s freezing out here and I’ve been sent to check on you.”
Shit. “My mother?”
“Yes.” There’s a strain in her voice that makes my entire body feel fatigued.
“Fine, you can come up, but only because you had to talk to Helen.” I push the button to open the front door, unleashing a sense of panic in my chest.
Glancing around the room, I try to discern what to clean up first. The layer of grime I’ve accumulated on my body will take at least ten minutes to scrub off in the shower, so that’s out. The empty takeout cartons on the coffee table are closest, so I collect and deposit them in the garbage. I pray that the elevator is stuck on the top floor as I plug the kitchen sink and squirt in some soap, then open the hot water tap to full force, hoping the bubbles will hide the pile of dishes. Scurrying around, I gather cups and forks and plates covered with dried-on food, drop them in the sink and shut off the water. Walt Whitman, my Siamese cat, is watching me from atop the back of the couch, looking thoroughly confused. He hasn’t seen me move this fast since…well…maybe ever.
The knock at the door makes my stomach drop. Lauren is about to become privy to my current reality, which means I’m in for a lecture and some very disapproving and pitiful looks—my least favorite kind.
Tightening the sash on my bathrobe, I pull open the door. “Ma’am, Private Sloth ready for inspection.” I salute and clap my heels together, but they don’t make a satisfying clicking sound because I’m wearing fuzzy slippers.
Lauren chuckles and I step aside to let her in. She’s dressed in a black suit and the timeless camel-hair coat I’ve admired on many occasions. She can pull it off because her complexion is warm brown instead of recluse white like mine. Also, she’s tall, so she doesn’t look like she’s playing dress-up in her father’s clothes when she puts on a long coat. Lucky bitch. I could also hate her for being wonderfully fit—like I used to be—but since she’s not responsible for the year-long binge I’ve been on, I’m going to give her a pass on that.
“When did you have to suffer through a call from my mother?” I make my way to the kitchen, keeping my distance in hopes she won’t notice how long it’s been since I bathed.
“Last night.”
“Sorry. I’ll ask her to stop doing that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Tea?”
“Please.” Lauren puts her briefcase on the floor and shrugs off her coat, hanging it neatly on the rack. “She’s not that bad, Abby. She’s just worried about you. And by the looks of things, her concern isn’t exactly unfounded.”
“What?” I ask, looking around the room. “Oh, I know it’s a bit messy today, but I had a rough night last night, so I was feeling a little lazy.”
She is standing on the other side of the island now. “Bullshit.”
“Seriously, I’m fine.”
She tilts her head to the side and raises one eyebrow. I know that look. She gives it to her husband, Drew, and it never fails to break him. Well, it won’t work on me becauseI’mnot hoping to have sex with her later.
I turn and open the cupboard where we keep the tea.
I. WhereIkeep the tea.
“Your mom is concerned that you might try to…maybe…take your own life.”
That gets my attention. I whirl around with my mouth hanging open. “What?”
“She’s worried that you’re deeply depressed, and if you don’t get help, you might do something drastic.”
Instantly, my cheeks burn and my eyes prick with humiliation, but I draw on my considerable store of anger to bring my emotions in check. I force an icy smile. “Well, that is not going to happen. That’s ridiculous.”
“Prove it.”
“What?”
“Prove. It.” She’s playing hardball literary agent Lauren Duncan.
“Fine.” I huff and fold my arms across my chest. “For starters, I’m too lazy to kill myself. Do you know how much work that would be?”
Oh, that was appalling. My gut clenches at my words, but since she’s now the one gaping, I continue, even though I wish I could stop. “I’d have to figure out what to wear, what to do with Walt, and then there’s the whole letter thing. I can’t even begin to imagine how many drafts I’d need. I’m a writer, so the last thing I write had better be spot-on perfect.” I shake my head and give a careless little shrug. “That all sounds like way too much work. Plus, I wouldn’t find out howA Handmaid’s Taleends.” I give her a ‘see, I told you’ look.
Lauren snorts then laughs. “Oh my God, you’re terrible.”
“You probably shouldn’t say things like that. I’m in a very delicate state,” I say, fighting a smile.
