“That’s weird.”
“What’s weird? My mother shaving?”
“I’ve just never seen your name attached to any books. I’d expect that to be the sort of thing good old Google would catch. Unless you’ve never been published.”
“You’ve googled me?” I raise my eyebrow. “Why?”
“Why does anyone google somebody? Because I was curious. I also googled my mailman, if it makes you feel any better.”
“Is he also your ex-wife?”
“Is that one of your questions?”
“No,” I grumble. “Yes, I’ve been published. I’m actually a USA Today bestseller. I just don’t publish under my own name. I use a pen name.”
“What’s your pen name?”
Nope. Not happening. My pen name is sacred like Peter Parker is to Spider-Man and Clark Kent is to Superman. The only people who know my pen name are the Smut Coven, my agent, and my publishing house.
“Veto.”
“What do you mean, veto?”
“A veto is a veto.” I shrug. “I didn’t say we were required to answer every question.”
“Can I ask why you’re vetoing that question? And don’t tell me it’s because you don’t want to answer it. That’s implied.”
“Is that an official question?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Because my writing is just for me.”
It’s the Reader’s Digest version of the truth, but it’s the truth nonetheless. When I’m writing, I’m my most authentic self. My books are like little windows into my soul that nobody can judge or discredit. Other than reviewer_1987 on Goodreads. That woman hates everything I write, but it doesn’t bother me. Writing is subjective, and I don’t take bad reviews personally. What I would take personally, what would destroy the joy that writing brings me, is for my writing to disappoint my family.
I’m no Virginia Woolf or Harper Lee. I haven’t penned the next great American novel, and I likely never will. I like to write about women falling in love and having great sex, even if I’m not experiencing either at the moment. Which I’m not. Not unless you count the stash of battery powered tools I keep next to my bed. The kind of books that I write aren’t good enough for my parents. They aren’t the sort of books they can brag about to their friends at the country club. They’d be embarrassed by them, and I’ve done enough on my own to give them a lifetime of embarrassment without adding to it.
“Who’s Martin?” Smith asks. “That’s my third question. I’m assuming he’s the guy Phoebe was talking about on the phone earlier. The one with the body and—”
“I thought we mutually agreed not to talk about anything that you may or may not have overheard.”
“I don’t remember making that agreement.”
“It’s the dog weed. It’s fried your brain just like all those ‘Say no to drugs’ commercials said it would.”
Aidan stirs in the back seat, mumbling something about beavers and ducks. Ozzie and Harriet abandon their post at his side, which is probably for the best, considering we have no idea how Aidan feels about beavers or ducks.
“We need wood,” he moans, his eyes still closed. “We need the beavers and the ducks to make a pact.”
“I should probably go check on him,” Smith says. “But don’t think I’m going to forget about that last question, genie.”
I fold my arms across my chest and nod in my best Barbara Eden impression.
While Smith attends to Aidan and his plan to unify the beaver and duck community, I summon the Smut Coven.
Penny: He’s not single.
Penny: His girlfriend is flying in tomorrow.
Penny: Then he’s going to make her his fiancée. After just 3 months of being together.
Jackie: 3 months? Who the hell gets married after 3 months?
Penny: EXACTLY!
Chelsey: How are you doing? Are you okay?
Penny: I don’t know how I feel about any of it.
Chelsey: Well, of course you don’t. He’s the only man you’ve ever loved.
Penny: Is he? Is that really possible?
Jackie: It is. You’ve lusted for plenty.
Jackie: An entire football team’s worth of lusting.
Penny: I get the point.
Chelsey: So he told you he’s planning on proposing tomorrow?
Penny: Not exactly.
Jackie: Wait. Why do you think he is?
Penny: He has a box from Tiffany’s in his bag.
Penny: It’s ring shaped.