Page 49 of The Write Stuff

She gave me a flirty look, although she likely didn’t realize it was flirty. She never realized when she was flirting. She was always just Wylie being Wylie. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “With you, I can never tell.”

She laughed and shook her head. “It’s alcoholic.”

“What are the ingredients?”

“Well, you can make it with vodka or gin,” she started.

“What’s it mixed with? That determines if you want to go with vodka or gin.”

“Blue Curaçao and grapefruit bitters.”

“Is that it?”

“And Ginger beer or ginger ale.”

That sounded awful, regardless, but I shrugged. “Definitely vodka.”

“Do you want to drink it with me?” She actually looked nervous to ask the question.

“You want to drink Romulan Ale with me?” Worries about how disgusting the concoction sounded immediately flew out the window.

“Only if you want to.”

I grinned. “I guess I could try some Romulan Ale.” Something occurred to me. “Only if you promise not to speak Klingon, though.”

To my surprise, a mischievous grin took over her features. “Oh, I’m going to speak Klingon. You know I’m going to have to.”

“But … it’s weird.”

“You like it, and you know it.”

Because she was right, all I could do was stare in her wake. “Fine, but I’m never speaking it. I need you to come to terms with that.”

She didn’t look at me. She just danced her way to another grave. “Never say never.”

I MADE A RESERVATION FOR THE following day at The Olde Pink House. I’d used my mother’s agent, who was the mother of my agent, because she was good at cutting through bullshit to get what she wanted. She secured the reservation within 10 minutes.

Then I tried not to think about what drinking Romulan Ale with Wylie would entail. That was a nighttime endeavor, right? We wouldn’t do that in the middle of the afternoon.

Thankfully, I didn’t have too much time to get worked up about that situation, because my mother called to distract me.

“Hello, darling,” she practically purred when I picked up. “How is my favorite boy?”

She always asked that question. It was as if she were contractually obligated or something. “I’m good,” I replied, and for the first time, I realized that I was telling the truth when I said it. “How is Jules?” I asked, referring to her current husband.

“Oh, he’s … fine.” Mom’s voice had an edge that told me Jules wasn’t fine. No, Jules would be out by the end of summer. He would leave with a small parting gift thanks to the prenup my mother forced him to sign. Then she would never mention him again.

“Fine, huh?”

“Don’t start,” she chided, managing a little laugh. “If I want to get divorced, I’m going to get divorced. You know that better than anybody.”

I definitely knew that. “You know you don’t have to get married whenever you find a new man, correct?”

“I like being married, Huxley. What do you want me to say?”

I wanted her to say that I wouldn’t have to meet her next husband. It wasn’t as if I got attached to them — I’d only ever gotten attached to one, although I hadn’t even realized it at the time — but I didn’t want to go out of my way to get to know them either. It was tiresome.