She kicked off the blanket, stumbled into the kitchen, and found Phyllis perched at the kitchen table in her silk flamingo robe, reading glasses on, a half-finished crossword sitting beside a glass of white wine. Behind her,Midwestern Mommy Murderersblared from a speaker.
Without looking up, Phyllis said, “You pacing, or plotting murder?”
Alix slumped into the chair across from her. “Somewhere in between.”
“Long-distance romance.” Phyllis clucked her tongue. “It’s God’s cruel joke for people who think they’re emotionally evolved.”
Alix smiled weakly. “Didn’t realize God was that petty.”
“Oh, she’s a real bitch sometimes.”
That earned a laugh. A small laugh, but a real one.
Phyllis studied her for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair. “You’re in love, kid.”
Alix groaned. “Don’t say it like it’s terminal.”
“It is. That’s why it’s fun.”
“I’m not having fun,” Alix said. “I’m miserable.”
“Of course you are. You’re in two different zip codes. Love’s supposed to be inconvenient. If it were easy, everyone would do it and the Hallmark Channel would go bankrupt.”
Alix dropped her head onto the table. “You’re so wise. Like a drunk, grammatically correct Yoda.”
“Thank you. I accept that.” Phyllis straightened her shoulders with a theatrical shimmy.
For a few minutes, they sat in companionable silence — Alix tracing the bottom edge of the wineglass with her finger, Phyllis tapping her pen against the table.
“I know I leave tomorrow night,” Alix said quietly. “But I keep thinking about what happens when I come back.”
Phyllis made a sound like a snort trying to disguise itself as empathy. “Then don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t come back.”
Alix blinked. “I can’t just move across the country. I have clients. Rent. Responsibilities. I have you. Who else is going to put up with your loud-ass podcasts? And how will you afford a rental in Silver Lake on a fixed income without a roommate?”
Phyllis waved a hand, dismissing all of it like lint. “Sweetheart, you think I advertised for a roommate for the money? And that this is a rental? I own this house. Outright.”
Alix frowned. “You… what?”
“Please.” Phyllis sipped her wine. “I wrote a song in 1978. You know ‘Snowed In with You’?”
Alix sat up straight. “I’m sorry, you mean like the second-most famous Christmas song in the world?”
“Fucking Mariah,” Phyllis muttered.
Alix blinked. “Are you messing with me?”
Phyllis smiled. “I wrote it with my second husband, technically. He got the credit, I got the royalties. Well, most of them.”
“First of all, hell yeah, Phyllis,” Alix said, reaching to high-five her. “Okay, so you’d be fine alone, which does help. I was trying to figure out how to fit you in a closet in whatever tiny apartment I find out there.”
“Alive, hopefully.”
“Phyllis,” Alix scolded. “You listen to too much true crime.”
