Chapters (55)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Cast of Characters
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Part Two
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- A note on the Author
Sebastian shook his head, the muscles in his thick neck bulging. “I don’t understand what’s going on. I don’t understand why you’re so unhappy.” He fumbled in the pocket of his faded denim jacket for a cigarette.
“No. You never did. And I will always love you for it.”
Assuring him that I was okay now, I hugged him good-bye outside my apartment. He took a few steps toward the curb before turning back to me. I was fumbling with my key, trying to breathe through my nose, determined to let him walk away.
“Ruby, do you want me to come and get rid of the cockroach?”
“Yes! Yes!” I almost cried with relief. And then I did cry with relief. He carried me up the stairs and placed me on the bed. Looking at the Gucci/Prada debris scattered around what was once the front room, he asked if someone had moved in. The clothes Cyrinda had left behind were so expensive you couldn’t really tell if they were for a boy or a girl because they were too avant-garde. Because he wasn’t sure what was going on, he wasn’t quick enough to mask his jealousy that I might be living with another man. Too tired to lie, I told him about Cyrinda. Later he asked me when I got a roommate and where she slept.
“On the trundle bed, of course.”
“There is no trundle bed.”
The silly bitch had taken the dumb cot and left behind her $4,000 Gucci python jacket.
Thirty-two
The bug man
He undressed me, running his long fingers along my soft flesh. Then he opened the closet door he had seen me open scores of times but had never opened himself, and found a pair of pajamas. Real pajamas, that he had given me, soft blue flannel from Macy’s. I slid the pants over my pale legs. He pulled the top across my shoulders, buttoning it up, closing it across my tummy and above my breasts and away from the sexual tension that lingered beside the tears and terror, like a guest reluctant to leave a party despite the hosts’ protestations that they want to go to bed.
He pulled the duvet up to my nose, having wiped it of snot with his freshly ironed handkerchief. Then he flicked on the bathroom light and surveyed the root of the problem.
I watched from my bed as Sebastian bent down onto the tiles, dirtying his crisp chinos, and scooped up the cockroach, encased in its black glue coffin, into a wad of toilet paper. For a moment he held the off-white wad as if it were a Dickensian knapsack bearing all his worldly possessions. Then he tossed it into the trash and, smiling, placed his hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t touch me!” I screamed. “You touched a cockroach!”