36
I threatened Ginger, of course.
One day, when Nicola was at work, I took my scrappy old flip phone and poked Ginger’s number into the keypad.
Then, in my best D-grade-horror-movie voice, I told her that if she didn’t love and cherish Nicola, I’d kill her.
Actually, I said if she broke Nicola’s heart, I’d get my good friend—Mr. Reaper, first name The, middle name Grim—to escort her out the door and straight down to hell.
It didn’t matter how many Hail Marys she said, it didn’t matter how many times she crossed herself or cried, she would spend eternity with her piece-of-shit husband if Nicola so much as shed a single tear.
Ginger listened silently to every word, sitting cross-legged on the floor, phone against her ear, watching me as I clanked and clattered around, still clutching my phone.
She was wearing cupcake earrings, a sparkly white scarf around her hair, and a pink denim vest that should’ve looked ridiculous but somehow didn’t, not on her.
Her gaze shimmered with tears, the happy kind, which was annoying because I was still threatening her.
When I’d finished telling her exactly how her entrails would look, hanging like Christmas decorations from the nearest tree, she spoke in a soft, sweet voice, like she meant every word she said, like they came straight from the gooey pink inner chambers of her heart.
“It’s good to have you back, Lucy.”