Nodding, she says, “So maybe try something new. Just keep the historical part and write, I don’t know…horribly depressing drama.”
I manage to curve my lips upward for a second, then let them drop. “There’s just no part of me that wants to create anything. I honestly don’t know if I’m a writer anymore.”
“Oh, Abby, don’t say that. Maybe you’re not ready to go back to it at the moment, but you can’t give up. It’s who you are.” She rests her hand on mine. Her palm is warm and soft and the feeling of another human touching me brings an unwelcome swell of emotion.
“Maybe you could try something else—just for a little while—until you feel inspired again. Work in a flower shop or a bookstore or something. Anything so you’ll have—” She stops herself when she sees the glare on my face.
“A reason to get up in the morning?” I quip, pulling my hand away. “He’s gone.”
Lauren sighs, and the look on her face says she’s as defeated as I intended her to be. Her cell phone buzzes and she glances at it. “Shit. I need a new assistant. The one thing I needed her to do was reschedule my three o’clock, but it looks like she hasn’t managed it.”
“You were going to take the afternoon off for me?”
Lauren nods.
Don’t I feel like a total bag?“That’s really not necessary. I’m doing fine.”
“This isn’t healthy, Abby,” she says, standing and picking up her briefcase. “You need to get out and be around people.”
“I have Walt. He’s people.”
“The other kind of people—human beings with opposable thumbs who can hold up their end of a conversation,” she says as she starts for the door. “I don’t know. Maybe you should try getting a little wild and having some fun for once.”
“I have fun all the time.” Spying my plate from breakfast, I pick it up off the coffee table and lick Pop-Tart crumbs off it. “See? That was wildly wonderful.”
She slides on her coat. “I’m serious, Abby. You can’t go on like this.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I can.”
“You’re going for a late lunch with me this Friday. I’ll be here at one-thirty to get you.”
“I won’t go with you, but I promise I’ll be alive.”
She laughs reluctantly. “You’re such a shit.”
“You love that about me.”
“I do, and you are leaving this apartment on Friday, even if I have to drag you out by your ankles.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Oh, I can do it, lady. Just make sure you shower and put some clothes on.”
“Nah, I’d rather make you take me out like this,” I say, opening the door for her. “But I insist we go to the Russian Tea Room.”
She walks out into the hall and turns to me, her face full of the pity I’ve grown to hate. “If you need help with paying back the advance?—”
“That’s very kind of you, but I could never allow that.” I shake my head at the notion. “I can manage it.”
The elevator bell dings and the door slides open, allowing Mr. Puente, the co-op board director who I’ve been artfully avoiding to catch sight of me. Son of a bitch.
“Abby, finally,” he says with a loud sigh. “I’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.”
“Let me guess, someone wants to re-open the great welcome mat debate of 2016,” I say, giving a discreet eye roll in Lauren’s direction. She gives me an ‘oh brother’ face and winks before she hurries to catch the elevator.
“Those mats were a tripping hazard.” He rushes toward me with his perfectly straight posture. He’s dressed in tan slacks, a starched white button-up, and a pea soup green sweater vest I’m sure he spent twenty minutes ironing this morning. “Have you been away? I’ve tried emailing, calling, and stopping by repeatedly.”
“I’ve been very busy.”
