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The first line of my novel doesn’t want to be written, so I decide to start with the second and see where that takes me. Twenty minutes in, I Google “how to write a thriller.”
I’m too distracted by what just happened with Moira to concentrate on any of the advice I find. Watching the object of my preoccupation talk on the phone, I realize I must be sending her the wrong vibes. Why else would she blurt out that she’s not looking for a relationship?
Even though I’m not looking for love, my ego is still bruised. I don’t know who to feel worse for—me, for firmly getting put into the friend zone before I even had a chance to pull out my best moves, or her, for looking so humiliated after preemptively shooting me down.
Me. I feel worse for myself.
Glancing up, I notice Moira coming my way with a strange look on her face. She looks like she’s trying not to laugh, which is odd considering how embarrassed she was earlier. Stopping at my booth, she says, “So, umm … your mom just called. Apparently, you’re not picking up your phone.”
“My mother called here?” Either my father is dead, or Bristol Farms ran out of the good cheese.
“She’s mad at you for not answering your phone.”
“She doesn’t seem to understand the concept of work hours. Sorry about that. I’ll make sure she doesn’t bother you again.”
“It was no problem, really.” Moira barely suppresses a giggle. “She asked me to take a message.”
I close my eyes for a second and silently pray for peace. “I see.”
“Rose says you need to pick up your phone from now on, in case there’s an emergency. Also, she says your dad has finally lost his mind and has started taking dance lessons with someone named Harriet.”
Rubbing my temples on both sides of my forehead to suppress the headache that’s creeping closer, I ask, “Anything else?”
She nods her head. “It sounds like she doesn’t approve of your writing a book, and she’d rather you come home and go back to yourrealjob.” Moira taps her chin with a pen while looking up at the ceiling as if trying to recall what else my mother said to her. “Oh yeah, and she and your dad are coming for a visit.”
“Excuse me?” Icy fingers of dread shoot up my spine.
“She’s booking a trip up here so you can show them around. She wants to see a bear … which seemed to have something to do with that Harriet person. I couldn’t quite follow the logic, but if I had to guess, I’d say she plans on threatening Harriet with a mauling.”
“This can’t be happening …” My entire face is hot with embarrassment and dread.
“And yet, it is ...” She’s full-on beaming now.
“Mothers, am I right?” I ask, before remembering that Moira’s mom is not only dead, but she abandoned her family first. Also, Moira’s a mother who’s currently engaged in a battle of wills with one of her kids …
Her expression falls. “Yeah, I hear they can be pretty tough.”
“I’m sorry, Moira. That was insensitive of me.”
“No worries.” She sounds sincere. “I’ve had a long time to get over it.” Grinning again, she adds, “But you should probably call your mom now.”
Sighing dramatically, I push out of the booth. “I’ll go outside and call her.” I have no idea where this conversation is going to go, and I don’t really love the idea of the other customers listening in. Moira steps aside so I can move around her, and seconds later, I’m standing out in the warmth of the sun waiting for my mom to pick up the phone.
In lieu of a greeting, she says, “I suppose you’re going to lecture me.”
“Would it help?” I ask.
“No.”
“Then I won’t bother, except to say that the woman who answered the phone at the diner doesn’t have time to take messages for me. She especially doesn’t have time to hear about Dad taking dance lessons with Harriet Eckle.”
“Well, I had to do something. You weren’t picking up.”
My mother is so sure I’m in the wrong here, there’s no point engaging in an argument. “I always call you back, Mom. But you know I can’t always be at your beck and call. I do work.”
“Psh, work. You’re not working now.” Not that she’s psychic, but even if she were, that comment has less to do with my writer’s block and more to do with the fact that I’m not currently “lawyering,” as she calls it.
Do not take the bait, Ethan. Do not take the bait.“What’s this about you coming to visit?”
