Page 13 of Ruthless Creatures

“Don’t sass me, young lady, or you’re grounded.”

“Ha.”

“And I’ll take away all your electronic devices.” She snickers. “Especially the vibrating ones.”

I say without heat, “You’re a terrible friend.”

“You’ll thank me later. You probably can’t even have an orgasm with a real penis anymore because you’ve been hammering your vagina with all those power tools. Your cooch is a construction zone.”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Don’t forget to eat!”

I disconnect the call without replying. We both know I’ll be eating a liquid breakfast this morning.

Five years. How I’ve survived this long, I don’t know.

I drag myself out of bed, take a shower, and get dressed. When I head to the kitchen, I find Mojo lying like a big shaggy rug in front of the refrigerator, smiling in my direction.

“Do you need to go pee before breakfast, buddy?”

He pants and thumps his tail but doesn’t move, indicating his preference.

The dog has a bladder the size of an above-ground pool. If he wasn’t so solid, I’d think he has a hollow leg or two where he stores all his pee.

“Breakfast it is.”

After I’ve fed him and taken him out to the backyard for a potty break and a frolic through the bushes to chase squirrels, we head back inside. He takes his usual spot on the living room rug and promptly falls asleep, while I arm myself with a light-on-the-OJ mimosa.

I can’t do what I’m about to do without liquor.

The idea came to me while I was in the backyard watching Mojo piss on a shrub. It’s stupid, I know, but if today’s the last day I’ll have my wedding dress, I need to try it on one last time. A final goodbye of sorts. A symbolic step into my future.

I almost hope it doesn’t fit anymore. Raising ghosts from their graves can be dangerous.

My hands don’t start to shake until I’m standing outside the closed closet door in the guest room.

“Okay, Nat. Man up. Woman up. Whatever. Just…” I inhale a deep breath. “Get your shit together. You have to be calm by the time Sloane gets here or she’ll flip.”

Ignoring how strange it is that I’m talking to myself out loud, I take a big gulp of the mimosa, set the champagne flute on the dresser, and gingerly open the closet doors.

And there it is. The puffy black garment bag that contains the memorial of all my lost dreams. It’s a sarcophagus, a zippered nylon tomb, and inside is my funeral shroud.

Wow, that’s dark. Drink up, Debbie Downer.

I guzzle the rest of the mimosa. It takes me another few minutesof pacing and wringing my hands before I work up the nerve to unzip the garment bag. When I do, the contents spill out with a sigh.

I stare at it. Tears pool in my eyes.

It’s beautiful, this stupid cursed dress. It’s a gorgeous custom-fitted cloud of silk and lace and seed pearls, the most expensive garment I’ve ever owned.

The most loved and hated.

I quickly strip down to only my panties, then take the dress off its hanger and step inside the full skirt. Pulling it up over my hips, I try to ignore how fast my heart is beating. I slip the halter straps over my head, then reach around behind me to zip the whole thing up.

Then I walk slowly to the floor-length mirror on the opposite side of the room and stare at myself.

The gown is a sleeveless halter style with a plunging neckline, an open back, and a cinched waist. It’s all overlaid with lace and decorated with tiny pearls and crystals. The princess skirt has a train embellished to match. The long veil hangs in the closet in its own bag, but I’m not brave enough to put the entire outfit together. Just getting the dress on is traumatic enough.