Page 77 of The Write Stuff

“And I don’t believe you,” Lucy said. “I think Mom has been funding your lifestyle for years, and you just don’t want to admit it because you two agreed to make me feel bad because you don’t agree with my life choices. You want to control me.”

“That’s not true.” I fought to keep from losing it with my sister. She always painted herself as a perpetual victim, and it was beyond annoying. “It doesn’t matter, though. This is my apartment. I’m on the lease. I pay the most money. I’m keeping my room.”

Huxley beamed at me proudly.

“I want to know what this app supposedly is,” Lucy insisted. “I’m not going to believe you if you don’t tell me.”

“Maybe it’s none of your business,” Huxley fired back.

“Oh, like you’re not curious,” Lucy barked at him.

“Oh, I’m curious,” he confirmed. “I’m just not going to push her. When she wants to tell me, she will.”

“No, I won’t,” I replied before I realized I was going to say anything. It just slipped out. “It’s embarrassing.”

His eyebrows moved toward each other as curiosity crawled over his features. “See, you’re not making this easy.” He wiped his bottom lip, as if he was actually salivating for the information. “This is torture,” he muttered.

“Oh, don’t fall for it,” Lucy snapped. “Mom has always spoiled Wylie. She agrees with Wylie’s life choices, so she has no problem giving her money. I, on the other hand, am always forced to beg and plead for money because she thinks I’m flaky. It’s not fair.”

Huxley lost his temper. “Life isn’t fair, Lucy,” he growled. “Also, I don’t think your mother has been funding Wylie’s life. That just doesn’t seem like something Aggie would do.”

“How would you know?” Lucy fired back. The words were barely out of her mouth before a familiar gleam appeared in her eyes. “I bet Mom wouldn’t like this particular life choice, would she?” When she gestured toward Huxley, my heart dropped to my stomach.

“You are not about to try to blackmail me,” I said right away.

“I would never use the word blackmail.” Lucy was suddenly the picture of innocence. “Who said anything about blackmailing you?”

I took a deep, centering breath. “You’re going to do what you’re going to do. If you feel the need to tell Mom, that’s on you. I’m done with this conversation, though.”

I took a deep, shaking breath. “I pay the bulk of the rent on this place. I pay for all the food. I even cut you a break on your quarter, so you can go out at least one night a month.

“I have bought you more plane tickets than I can count,” I continued. “I’ve bought you clothes. I found out that you were getting money from Mom in Wyoming using the same story you used on me.”

“I told you not to bring that up to Mom,” she hissed, missing the point entirely.

“It’s time to be a grown-up, Lucy,” I insisted. “It doesn’t matter how I make my money. It’s legal. And, yes, it was a smart enough deal that I’ll probably be able to retire in 10 years if I invest wisely, which I’m doing. Mom hooked me up with her financial advisor.”

“But Mom didn’t ask how you made all that money?” Lucy challenged. “That’s bullshit. She wouldn’t just let you get away with that.”

“I told her enough to make her understand why I didn’t want anybody to know, and she accepted that,” I replied. Actually, it had been Mick who pushed her to accept it. He knew what I’d done. He’d helped me find a programmer. He never told my secret, either, which was only one of the reasons I loved the man.

“It doesn’t matter, Lucy,” Huxley interjected. “What Wylie does to make a living is her business.”

“And yet everybody gets to lodge an opinion on how I make a living,” Lucy complained. “Do you not see the hypocrisy in that?”

“Wylie pays for all her own bills,” he countered. “She’s not asking others to fund her lifestyle. That’s why she gets privacy. If you’re going to keep expecting others to fund your lifestyle, then you don’t get the same level of privacy. That’s not how it works.”

“But … Wylie has it easy. She followed in Mom’s footsteps, and she’s the favorite. It’s not fair.” Lucy folded her arms over her chest and glared. She was clearly in meltdown territory, which I recognized.

“That’s not true,” I said, my voice softer than I expected it to be. Lucy had pressed every button I had, and it was difficult to maintain my temper. “We were raised differently — I won’t deny that — but I had to be more self-sufficient than you.”

“You mean you were the favorite child who got to go to all the book signing stuff while I got left in the hotel room with a nanny,” Lucy seethed.

“You were too young to be on the convention floor,” I protested.

“And that wasn’t as fun as you’re imagining,” Huxley added. “It was a lot of pressure.”

“Oh, listen to the guy who got the same deal from his mother that Wylie got from our mother.” Lucy got to her feet. “I’m sick of being disrespected.”