let go of, to take it. A comforting, lemony smell drifts upward. Wow. Ted mustâve gone straight into the kitchen the minute he got home from the wedding.
âHey, Ginger,â Nick says in this gruff-gentle voice, and the anger just goes poof along with the fear that my motherâs body parts are scattered all over 57th Street. I mean, really, like Iâve got the energy to be ticked about something that happened ten years ago when Iâve got a much juicier, more recent affront to my pride to deal with.
My eyes narrow. âWhy are you here, Nicky?â
Nicky plants his hands on his hipsâever notice the interesting places menâs jeans tend to fade?âhis eyes like blue flames under thick, dark blond hair, his mouth turned slightly down at the corners, and I think, is it me, or is this weird? That Iâm standing here in a wedding dress my husband will not be tearing off my body tonight, holding consolatory, still-warm baked goods from my gay neighbors, whilst strolling down memory lane about a quickie in a church closet?
That Iâm staring up at the iron jaw of the man who ten years ago annihilated a pair of brand-new, twenty-dollar Dior bikinis and who, it pains me to admit, I would probably allow the same privilege today? That is, if I were not of the current opinion that all men should be shot.
âLook,â the Virginator says, âthis is sort ofâ¦unofficial. Iâm not even on duty, in fact, butâ¦â He grimaces. âMind if I come in?â
I wobble out of the way, let him pass.
All available air in the apartment has just been effectively displaced. Nicky doesnât seem to notice, probably because heâs too busy taking in my crushed-moth look, my frizzled hair, the fact that I am slightly swaying, as though to music only I can hear. He then crosses his arms and dons a troubled expression, which I decide he practices in front of his mirror at night. I also decide we are both going to pretend ten years ago didnât happen.
âIâm really sorry,â he says, âbut I gotta ask you thisâ¦the guy you were gonna marry, Greg Munson? Whenâd you last see him?â
I hug the bottle, tears cresting on my lower lashes. Oh, God, no. Please donât tell me Iâm a maudlin drunk. âTh-thursday night.â
âYou sure about that?â
âIâm d-drunk,â I say, indignantly, still swaying, still clutching the empty bottle to my stomach. âNot lobotomized. Of course Iâm sure about that.â
Nicky gently removes the bottle from my grasp, as if itâs a loaded gun, and glowers at it. âChrist. You drink this whole thing by yourself?â
âEvery stinkinâ d-drop.â He suddenly tilts off to onesside, just before I feel him clasp my shoulders and turn me around, steering me toward my sofa.
âSit,â he says when we get there.
Not that he has to ask. I drop like a stone, the dress whooshing up around me. I also feel like giggling, which, since a policeman is questioning me about my fiancéâs whereabouts, is probably an inappropriate reaction. I look up to see Nicky and his twin doing that glowering thing again, hisâtheirâarms crossed. I will a sober expressionâas it wereâto my face.
âSeems nobody else has seen Munson since then, either,â he says. âHis parents just filed a missing persons report. Tried to, anyway.â
I feel my eyebrows try to take flight. âAlready?â
âI know, itâs premature. And probably a huge waste of time, since instinct tells meâexcuse me for saying thisânothinâs happened to this guy except he got cold feet. But people like Bob Munson are very good at making waves.â Nicky glances around the studio apartment, which takes maybe three seconds. âSo how come, if you were gettinâ married, all your stuffâs still here?â He looks back at me, eyes narrowed.