Page 28 of The Write Stuff

I wanted to stop her. I’d interrupted her writing session after all. She hadn’t done anything but say she didn’t like The Landings. Heck, I didn’t like The Landings. It was fine for now, but it wasn’t going to be my forever home. I still didn’t know what forever would look like for me. I didn’t live a forever life thanks to my mom. It was normal in my world to pick up and move every two years. The Landings wasn’t a hill I wanted to die on.

Yet here I was.

“Wylie.” That was all I got out. Her name. I didn’t know what else to say.

“It was great seeing you again, Huxley,” she said, avoiding my gaze. I felt wretched. “Have a nice life.” She started for the door, then stopped herself. “By the way, Lucy has moved in with me.”

It took me a moment to place the name. Lucy. Her sister. She’d been a menace as a kid because she spent more time with the nanny than her parents. She’d once kicked me in the knee to steal a Kit Kat.

“And why would I care about that?” I challenged.

“Because she wants to hurt you. I’ve tried explaining that everything is fine, that we’re going to pretend that nothing happened between our mothers. She said that wasn’t possible. I said otherwise. She might have been right, though.”

I let out a low growl. “Wylie, wait —”

She shook her head to cut me off. “I’m leaving. Have fun with your day downtown and have a great night in your soulless community. I hope everything comes up candied pralines for you.”

What was that supposed to mean? “Wylie —”

She barked out sounds that didn’t form words, and I recognized them as Klingon. I had no idea what she’d said, but I knew it wasn’t nice.

I sat there like an idiot as I watched her flee from the coffee shop. Once she was gone, I burst into laughter. I wasn’t expecting it.

Had I just been insulted in Klingon? There was nothing more Wylie in the world and … well … I kind of liked it.

There was definitely something wrong with me.

8

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.