knotted-up muscles at the base of my neck. “He was very apologetic, though.” My voice seemed eerily level, even to my own ears. “I mean, he’s not sticking me with the rest of the bills or anything.”
“Jesus.”
“What?”
“You’re scaring me.”
“Scaring you? Why?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be incoherent and breaking things right about now?”
I wasn’t sure whether to be dumbfounded or indignant. “That would be like me saying all men sit around every Sunday afternoon, watching sports and stuffing their faces with nachos and pork rinds.”
“Yeah. So?”
I huffed a little sigh. “Greg didn’t.”
“No, all he did was go AWOL on your wedding day.”
I frowned. Just a tiny one, though. “But he said—”
“I don’t give a shit what he said. Guy doesn’t even have the balls to tell you in person. He treated you like dirt, Ginger. Like I should’ve called you after…you know. Paula’s wedding. But I didn’t. And even though I was only twenty-one and still functioning on half a brain, that still makes me scum, which I can live with. But what that guy did to you…dammit! Why aren’t you more pissed?”
“Because anger is counterproductive—”
“That’s bull. And holding it in isn’t healthy.”
“Then you must not be paying attention in those anger management classes they make you take,” I said, feeling my face redden. What the hell was this guy trying to do to me?
“Managing it isn’t the same as stifling it.”
“Speaking of stifling it—”
“I bet you’re even still wearing his ring.”
“That’s none of your bus—”
“Take it off, Ginger. Now.”
That’s when, in the process of swiping my hand across the face, I scraped my nose with one of the prongs (something I’d managed to do at least once a day since I put the damn thing on, if you want to know the truth), which was just enough to send me over the edge. So I yanked off the ring and hurled it against the counter backsplash. The clatter was surprisingly loud. And satisfying.
“Is it off?” Nick said.
“I hope you’re alone,” I said, suppressing the urge to paw through my cookbooks before the roaches carted it off (yeah, we got ’em on the East Side, but they’ve got little Louis Vuitton gold initials all over them), “because do you have any idea how your end of the conversation sounds—”
“Is…it…off?”
“You know, you’ve got a real problem with patience—”
“Goddammit, Ginger—”
“Yes, Nick. The ring is off. Happy?”
“Delirious. Did you throw it?”
I shoved my hair out of my face. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did—”
“Hard?”
With a weighty sigh, I hauled myself off the stool, leaned over to squint at the backsplash. Sure enough, there was a tiny scratch. Which I will swear was there when I moved in. Since I was in already in the neighborhood, I picked up the ring, then I sat back down with a grunt, twiddling the bauble between my thumb and index finger. “Hard enough.”
“Good,” Nick said, with a note of my-work-here-is-done accomplishment in his voice. “Anyway. Just wanted to touch base. Let you officially know you’re in the clear.”
“Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”
Silence strained across the line.
“So. You take care, okay? And, Ginger?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t put the ring back on.”
After he hung up, I sat and listened to the dial tone for several seconds, my body humming like I’d just had insta-sex.
So now that you’ve been treated to Day 3 of How Ginger Spent Her Honeymoon, we can skip ahead to the equally fun-filled present, where I’m doing the catatonic number in front of the tube. Nick hasn’t called since. Not that there’s any reason he should.
And the ring is safely snoozing in its little Tiffany box, tucked underneath my undies.
And, as you may have guessed, the I’m-gonna-right-this-boat feeling passed. I might have ridden the crest for a moment or two, but then the wave took me under again. I hadn’t fully realized how much I’d loathed dating until I no longer had to. The gruesome prospect of having to start over is more than I can bear thinking about.
Credits roll on the screen in front of me, which means it’s later than I thought, which means I have to face the music, or in this case the shower, and fix myself up at least enough so I don’t frighten little children when I step outside. Last time I caught my reflection, I looked like an electrocuted poodle. And I really should take the cake plate back to Ted and Randall. Maybe I’ll look sad enough that they will take pity on me and fill it up again. I’m thinking maybe chocolate-chip-macadamia-oatmeal cookies. Or brownies would be good, too…
My phone rings again. I hesitate, then answer.
“Cara?”
My heart stops. It’s my grandmother.
Who never, ever, ever makes phone calls.
“Nonna, what’s—?”
“Your mother, she is onna her way to your place. Inna taxi. But you never heard it from me.”
For about ten seconds after Nonna hangs up, I contemplate the fortuity of Greg’s not being dead and my consequent removal from the N.Y.P.D.’s suspect list because now it will take them longer to connect me to my mother’s murder. Of course, if and when they finally did, maybe Nick would have to come back and question me again—which held a definite appeal, over and above being rid of my mother—only I don’t think I could stand the look of disappointment in his eyes when he found out I dunnit. So I guess I’ll let my mother live.
And please don’t take my ramblings seriously. I can’t even set a mouse trap.
In any case, while I’ve been standing here plotting my mother’s demise, the clock has been quietly ticking away. Now I quickly calculate how long it will take a taxi to get here from Riverside Drive and 116th Street and realize I can either clean me or clean the apartment, but not both, which provokes a spate of agitated swearing. Not that my mother’s a neat freak, believe me—until Nonna came to live with us after my grandfather died when I was ten, I didn’t even know you could make a bed—but one look at this place, and she’s going to know I’m not exactly
