“I am definitely not getting in. For many reasons. First, because swimming in a bathtub is absurd. Second, because I think we are a little old to be taking a bath together as siblings. And third, because I hate baths. Loathe them, actually. I don’t want to sit in my filth,” I detail.
“Fun sucker,” she says through a pout.
“I’ve got to live up to the title,” I remark.
She’s been calling me a fun sucker since I was eleven years old, when I should have been riding bicycles with a gaggle of boys my age, but instead I was washing windows or walking Ms. Daisy’s impossibly stubborn St. Bernard. Although it hadn’t exactly been walking. I had been dragged by the massive dog down the streets, rope burns searing across my flesh from the leash being tied aroundmy wrist multiple times because one of my largest fears was losing that dog in the city.
“You can always ask for a title change if your behavior warrants it,” Lily scolds. “It’s been almost twenty years of making sure I have the least amount of fun as possible.”
I drop my chin an inch and give her an imploring glare, as if to tell her that she knows that is not true. My intention had never been to keep her from having fun. I’d always wanted to make sure she was safe. To make sure she had the childhood I didn’t have but within parameters that I could control, not that I could control much as a kid. But I could control more than most thought possible.
“I know, I know,” she mumbles. “I’m just teasing, and for what it’s worth…this tub is much better than the one we had.”
I think about the tub we had. The one that was stained and cracked. The one where I sometimes had to haul hot water from a neighbor because our water was turned off. The one where I learned how to gently brush out Lily’s tangles because our mother had quit caring.
It’s as if Lily can read my thoughts, and she looks at me with understanding eyes.
“The forum is in three hours. I’ve got to prepare,” I say, interrupting the memory and the moment. “In fact, I’m going to go check on Rachel.”
A sly smirk crawls across Lily’s face. “Check on Rachel, huh?”
Last night we walked back to the hotel and managed not to say anything bitter or rude to one another. We actually acted more like friends than enemies. Maybe we’d be able to survive this book tour over the next six weeks and be better off for it.
It’s only six weeks. Six weeks of small talk and trying to remember that her fanfiction has a positive effect on my book sales. And surely, she’d soon be signing her own book deal so she could stop playing around with Barrett.
It’s a realization I had after letting my anger simmer long enough. If this book tour is good for Rachel, then she can use her words to write something other than fanfiction, which means she will soon be leaving me and my characters alone.
“I just want to make sure she’s ready, Lily,” I defend myself. “It’s the first one. If this doesn’t go over well, it won’t be good for any of us. You included.”
“Sure, sure,” she coos, splashing lukewarm water in my direction. “Whatever you need to tell yourself.”
I shut the door as my response. I don’t need to tell myself anything. Idowant to make sure this goes well. I finally submitted the final draft of the fourteenth book in the series before we left, but the ending is weaker than convenience-store coffee. It’s not my best novel. It’s not even my second best. I know that. I’d need to revise it while on this book tour. I just need some inspiration.
I make sure that my room key is in the pocket of my slacks before I open the door into the glistening hallway. Everything is white. White marble floors, white walls, white doors. It’s a little much, as if someone has taken bleach and scrubbed every surface down.
The elevator door springs open with a happy-go-lucky tune. I push the number eight. Rachel's room is 810, four floors below mine. It isn't a suite, but it's still nice.
When Rachel swings open her door, I can tell she’s not expecting to see me, and I’m not expecting to see her in something other than a dress.
“So, you do own something other than a dress?” I say as a greeting.
Her head drops like a ragdoll with an overexaggerated eye roll upward to accompany the heavy movement. She’s wearing black leggings with an oversized yellow T-shirt hanging off her shoulder. Her ruby locks are swept up in a bun that takes messy to a whole new level. There are pieces of hair escaping the confines of the elastic band everywhere. Her face is free of makeup, and I thinkI spy dark circles under her green eyes that look frantic, as if she’s contemplating fleeing.
“Nice to see you, too,” she mumbles. “There’s an entry fee today to see the show before the show.”
“The show?” I question as I slip my hands into my front pockets.
“I gather you are here to ensure that I’m more frazzled than you are about the forum today. Gathering intel for wisecracks at me during our debate,” she further explains. “It’s fifty dollars to enter.”
“How about I just take you to dinner tonight and call it even?” I suggest, wishing I could cram the words back into my mouth immediately.I realize the way I said those words could be inferred as a date.
Since I can’t take them back, I add, “Since you need the company credit card.”
She sighs before staggering to the side to make room for me to squeeze through the door frame. I’m not sure how she’s accomplished it, but her room is even more of a disaster than the night before. It’s as if a tornado had intricately followed a direct path to only her room and tossed everything around. Her clothes cover every surface, and there are fabrics and colors of every kind. Is this woman dressing for the circus? None of this looks like business attire. I spy no black, no gray, not even any solid navy blue, which would be appropriate.
“Did Lily make it in?” she questions as she starts to pace around the room, picking up item after item, tossing them into a massive pile on her unmade bed.
I try to keep my eyebrows from furrowing, from suggesting that I am completely overwhelmed by the chaos that is evidently part of who Rachel Perry is as a person.
