Page 48 of The Write Stuff

I scowled. “Did my mother tell you to ask that question?”

Her smile disappeared. By tacit agreement — meaning nobody ever mentioned it — we never brought up our mothers except by accident. My mother had no idea I had reconnected with Wylie. We were careful never to be photographed together at the author events, just in case we might show up on a gossip blog that connected us to our mothers. I still walked her home after each event. We just didn’t interact during the events. We were careful to keep things neutral when it came to the group dinners before the events, too. We were no longer arguing in front of the others. We weren’t really doing anything in front of them. Our friendship was just for us, which was how I liked it.

“So, how are things with Lucy?” I asked to change the subject. I motioned with my hand for Wylie to enter the cemetery first.

“She’s still not talking to me,” Wylie replied as she headed down the sidewalk.

“Is she still working?”

“Yes. It’s just a waitressing job at a little diner place, but she’s actually leaving money on the counter once a week to cover her portion of the bills.”

“Is she actually covering half?” I couldn’t help being dubious. I’d yet to see Lucy as an adult — I wasn’t looking forward to that either — but I felt as if I knew her through Wylie’s stories. I had no doubt how things were really going.

“Oh, well …” Wylie stopped walking but didn’t finish out her response.

“I’ll take that as a no,” I muttered.

“It’s a waitress job,” Wylie replied pointedly. “It’s her first waitress job to boot. It’s not as if she could get in a place where she would get really good tips. Only experienced waitresses get those gigs. She’s doing okay. That doesn’t mean she can afford half the bills, though.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Is she covering a third of the bills?”

“Um …”

I growled. “She’d better be covering a quarter of the bills, Wylie,” I warned her.

She was sheepish when she smiled. “That’s what she’s covering. I would ask for more, but she’s only going out once a week. That’s all she can afford. My mother has agreed not to send her any money, so she’s living lean for her standards.”

It didn’t sound as if Lucy was suffering. Not that I wanted her to suffer or anything. That wasn’t who I was. Even as my shin twinged, right where she had kicked it, I forced myself to refrain from being too gleeful. “I guess it’s a start,” I said grudgingly.

“It is, and I don’t want to come down too hard on her,” Wylie agreed. “She can’t completely change her priorities overnight. She’s working on it, which is the important thing.”

“But she’s still not talking to you?”

“No.” Wylie shook her head. “She’s working nights, though, so she’s basically getting in bed about an hour before I wake up in the morning. Then, most of the time, I’m getting home after she’s already left for work. We don’t cross paths a lot.”

“And what does she do when you do cross paths?”

“She pretends I don’t exist.” Wylie held out her hands in a “what are you gonna do” gesture. She was an expressive individual, and I loved how animated she was. “She’s making forward progress. That’s all I care about right now.”

I didn’t disagree with her, so I decided to change the subject. “How is your book going?”

“Good,” she replied as she stopped to check a grave. It was old, and she looked sad as she did the math on the age. The grave belonged to a child. “I’m at the three-quarter mark. What about you?”

“About the same. I think I’m a little behind you.”

“Are you going on a book tour for this one?”

That was a good question. I’d been on multiple book tours at this point. My female readership absolutely loved the question-and-answer sessions I participated in at bookstores. Those tours usually lasted a solid three months. I wasn’t certain if I was in the mood for another one, despite enjoying them when I was on the road.

I tried to tell myself I wasn’t as eager to take off for three months because I needed a break, not because I would miss Wylie terribly. I mean, we’d only been hanging around for a month. We were just friends. She couldn’t just take over my life.

Yet I knew, deep down, that she was the reason I didn’t want to go. She was the reason I wasn’t answering that question from my agent. I knew I should go. I really didn’t want to, though.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “They haven’t really brought up the marketing plan yet.” The lie rolled off my tongue with ease. “I guess we’ll see.”

She nodded and moved to another grave. “Did I tell you I found a good recipe for Romulan Ale to try?”

I grinned. She was singular in her interests at times. “Alcoholic or non-alcoholic?”