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The screams and accusations from the reality show on the television pull my attention as I bend forward, deftly weaving around a stack of books, a stained coffee mug, and a pile of used tissues. I grab the wine bottle from the far side of the table. (Funny how raising from the couch feels like an act of God, but retrieving a bottle of wine? Suddenly I’m as quick and nimble as a gold-medal gymnast.)
“You’re nothing more than a dime-store slut,”one housewife spits at another.
“Hey, I’m not the one with a box full of second-hand dildos under my bed.”
“Oh howdareyou…”
Eyes locked on the television, I sink back down on the couch and refill my wine glass, splashing a few drops on the rug beneath my feet. I wonder what secondhand dildos are. Surely notuseddildos, right? Is that even a thing? Do people recycle their sex toys? I am just about to Google this very question when Shirley raises her head at the sound of tires on gravel outside.
I frown, look at the clock, a forgotten commitment tickling the fringes of my memory.
“What day is it?” I ask Shirley.
Outside, the vehicle rolls to a stop.
I surge off the couch, tripping over my blanket as it tumbles to the floor. I sprint to the kitchen, the sudden burst of energy sending my heart rate surging. A reminder that I really do need to move more.
I pull open the pantry and squint at theFriendscalendar tacked on the back of the door. Scribbled under today’s date:Hair, 3pm.
“Shit.”
I totally forgot.
My house is a wreck, I haven’t washed my hair in four days, I have no makeup on, and I’m half drunk.
Fantastic.
A car door slams outside.
“Screw it.” I mutter and shrug.It is what it is,my mother’s voice echoes in my head.
Shirley saunters past the doorway as I walk out of the kitchen, flashing me the side-eye of disapproval—well one of them, anyway.
I open the front door just as Ginger Dubois is raising her swollen, veiny hand to knock. Per usual, the sixty-something’s short hair is fluffed to perfection, not a strand out of place. The color is lighter than I remember, a shimmery silver that highlights a round, ruddy face with a pair of aggressively stenciled eyebrows. Her leathery skin is at least two shades darker than last time I saw her, suggesting either a recent beach vacation or a nap under a spray-tan gun. She is wearing a paisley-print shawl over a fitted black T-shirt with a yellow peace sign in the middle. The thin fabric stretches against a pair of large, perky breasts that I would give my right arm for. White capri pants and blinding white sneakers complete the look. One cool cat.
Ginger Dubois is a bit of a legend in Crest County. People either love her or hate her, there is no in-between. The eccentric spinster’s claim to fame was being owner of the only reputable beauty salon in the area, which she named Dye Hard. Clever cat. Ginger quickly became known for both her delicate touch and uncanny ability to recite every single piece of gossip that came through the doors. If you wanted to know anything that wasn’t in the papers, Ginger was your gal. Dye Hard had a good twenty-year run, before the failing economy forced Ginger to close her doors. However, the savvy businesswoman had compiled a VIP list (her words, not mine) of special clients whom she offered to make house calls for after the shop officially closed—cash only. It is widely rumored that this income is not reported to the IRS. It is also rumored that Ginger DuBois is not her real name and that her life-story before moving to Thorncrest is shoddy at best. I find the woman absolutely fascinating.
Ginger steps inside, a bag in one hand, a bejeweled to-go mug of wine in the other. Her perfume literally makes my eyes water.
I sneeze.
“Jesus, woman,” she says, looking around my house, “you’ve got to get either a housekeeper or a husband.”
Sniffing, I close the door, lock it. “I know, I’m sorry, it’s a mess. I forgot you were coming today. And, by the way, last I checked husbands don’t clean.”
“No, but you will in order to keep one around.”
“That’s pretty antiquated.”
I grab a chair from the kitchen and drag it into the living room while Ginger lays out her box of tricks on the ironing board I leave out like a piece of furniture. Leaned up against the wall next to it is an old bike I bought from a thrift store a few months ago. I take it for a spin down the driveway on occasion, after a few glasses of wine.
“It’s not antiquated,” she says when I return. “It’s love. When you love someone you want to do things for them—like keep the house clean. That’s how it works.”
“Well therein lies the problem.”
She glances at me. “You don’t love anyone?”
No one loves me, I think, but don’t say it.
