Loose Screws Read Online Free Page A

I gaze at the wedding dress, still lolling in the middle of the floor like a wilted magnolia. I have no idea what to do with it. I can’t exactly throw it out, I certainly can’t see packing it away as a keepsake, or giving something with this much bad karma to someone else. So there it sits. With any luck the silk will eventually biodegrade, leaving behind a small, neat pile of satin-covered buttons I can just bury or something.
    The tulle snags on my leg stubble as I shuffle through the dress on my way to the sofa. Guess I should shave.
    Guess I should bathe.
    I sink onto the sofa—my only concession to “cleaning”has been to push the bed back into the sofa sometime during the day—my mouth full of melting chocolate and ice cream. I am one miserable chick, lemme tell ya. What’s weird though, is that I actually felt better a few days ago than I do now. There was a period there—
    Okay, wait. Let’s back up and I’ll fill you in.
    The day after the wedding is a total loss. Whoever said champagne doesn’t give you a hangover lied. By the following day, however, I had recovered enough to face my kitchen, as well as my phone, which, when I finally got up the nerve to check, was up to twenty-five messages. A new world’s record. (I’d turned my cell ringer off, too. I figured the world could do without me for a couple days.) Gathering the tatters of my courage—and Ted’s fabulous lemon poppyseed bundt cake—I plopped my fanny up on my bar stool and pressed the play button.
    The first thirteen messages, as I’d suspected, were all basically variations on the “Are you okay? Call me” theme from my mother. Then:
    â€œHey, Ginger, it’s Nick. Just checkin’ in, see if you heard anything. Let me know.”
    â€œNick.” Not “Nicky.” Got it. I also got something else, a genuine concern that wasn’t at all sexual in nature. No, really. He was family, after all, in a peripheral kind of way. And once sober, I realized my reaction to him had been due to nothing more than booze and shock. Besides, the last time I talked to Paula, she told me Nicky—Nick—had a new girlfriend, she’d met her once, she was okay but for God’s sake this was like the sixth one this year and God knew she thought the world of her brother-in-law, but when the hell was he planning on growing up, already?
    Another three messages from my mother, then:
    â€œGirl, pick up the damn phone!” Terrie. “Come on, come on…damn. I know you’re in there, probably cryin’ your eyes out, which is a shame ’cause the sorry skank ain’t worth it….”
    One thing I’ll say for Terrie—there won’t be any “there are other fish in the sea” pep talks from that quarter, since as far as she’s concerned, the only thing that happens when you take fish out of the water is they start to stink.
    â€œOkay, I guess this means you’re either sittin’ there not answering or you’ve turned off your ringer. I don’t suppose I blame you. But you just remember, if you hear this anytime in the next decade, that this is NOT your fault. Okay, baby—you give me a call when you return to the land of the living, we’ll go out and par-tay.”
    Uh-huh. At that moment I’d been feeling a strong affinity with Mrs. Krupcek in 5-B who, legend has it, got stuck in the elevator for two hours one day back in the eighties when the building lost electricity and consequently peed all over herself. Nobody’s seen her leave the building since.
    I haven’t called her back yet. Terrie, I mean, not Mrs. Krupcek. But Terrie will understand. I hope.
    â€œUh, yeah?” the next message started. “It’s Tony from Blockbuster?” At the time, I wondered which he wasn’t sure about, that his name was Tony or that he was from Blockbuster. “I’m just calling to let you know