The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  The car comes to a stop and Ralph buzzes me through the intercom to let us know we’ve arrived. He won’t lower the privacy window or open a door until I buzz him back.

  “This is you,” I say.

  Brittany makes a pouty face. “Too bad we didn’t have more fun.”

  I buzz Ralph to thank him. I may be annoyed by my date, but I still have manners. “I’ll walk you to your door.”

  “You don’t need to do that.”

  I open the door and step onto the sidewalk to wait for her. She rearranges her skirt and takes my offered hand. As she steps out, she flashes me. She’s not wearing panties, so I get a glimpse of what I’ll be missing out on tonight. I’m sure she’s done this on purpose. I assume it’s to taunt me. Considering my current state, I’m likely to pass out on her at any minute.

  Over the years a lot of women have pulled this move on me. It worked the first few times, but it’s a little boring when there’s no chase. It’s always better when I have to work for it.

  I walk her to her door and apologize for what happened, again, even though I’m not sure how sorry I really am anymore. Her theatrics are a little much to handle.

  Apparently my courteous actions seem to have flipped yet another one of her switches. After she unlocks the door she turns to me, looking me over as she licks her lips. “You know”—she adjusts my tie, which was perfectly straight before she touched it—“if you really wanted to, you could show me how sorry you are.”

  As drugged up as I am, I’m almost positive this is a proposition. “Oh? And how would I do that?”

  “By coming up for a nightcap.”

  I turn my head and cough into the crook in my elbow. I can’t believe she’s still interested after the shitshow tonight has turned out to be.

  “I should probably take a raincheck on that, considering I’m not feeling well. I wouldn’t want to make you sick, too.”

  “There are other places you can kiss me besides my mouth.”

  I have to resist the urge to sit her down and lecture her on self-respect. I can’t believe she’s propositioning me after I kissed someone else, accidentally or not.

  “That’s usually where I start and it seems like a poor idea with how I’m feeling. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  She sighs and runs her hands over my chest. “I guess. Are you free next week? I’m sure you’ll be feeling better by then.”

  “I’m leaving on a business trip later this week, but can I call you when I get back?” I cringe internally and hope the emotion doesn’t make it to my face.

  “Okay!” she says enthusiastically.

  I let her hug me and give her my cheek when she goes in for a kiss.

  I wait until she goes inside before I head back to the waiting car, mystified by her continued interest in me.

  As I settle in for the ride home, I think about the woman I did kiss. I definitely need to find out who she is so I can send her flowers and maybe a bottle of vitamin C capsules for my accidental manhandling.

  Chapter 3: Screw You, Awesome Kisser

  RUBY

  I eat an entire Listerine PocketPak on the subway ride home to kill any lingering germs in my mouth from Awesome Kisser. I’m annoyed by the whole thing, but at least he apologized and seemed sincere about the accidental tongue invasion. Too bad the hotness of the memory is marred by raging Brittany and the hack in the face.

  After getting home, I rinse with mouthwash, down six vitamin C capsules and some anti-flu holistic stuff, and then I go ahead and make myself my customary before-bed, pre-audition nighttime drink of hot honey-lemon water, and pray I’ve done a good enough job of ridding myself of cough germs.

  I climb into bed, note my sheets lack a fresh scent, question when I last washed them, then I set my alarm and close my eyes. Behind my lids appears the hottie—whose name is apparently Banny, or maybe I misheard and it’s Danny. It’s not really a hot guy name. I’m going to stick with Awesome Kisser.

  Now that I’m past the shock-and-awe factor I can fully appreciate that man’s hotness in the shouty caps sense of the word. It’s unfortunate he dates vapid, self-absorbed model-y types and not starving artists. I have a feeling “date” isn’t the appropriate word anyway. It’s also unfortunate that he has poor coughing manners.

  I consider that he was likely a guest at the engagement party and he very well may be a guest at the wedding as well. If I’m still dateless by then he could make an excellent potential dance partner, depending of course on how tight he is with Armstrong. If they’re close friends I don’t think it’s advisable to get involved in any semi-unclothed dancing outside of the wedding celebrations, no matter how hot he is. I don’t want to run the risk of encountering him again should things not go as well as one hopes.

  Eventually I stop fantasizing about what’s under his suit and pass out.

  * * *

  I’m about to find out exactly what’s in Awesome Kisser’s designer pants when a repetitive, annoying sound distracts me. I pause just before I smooth a hand over the amazingly prominent bulge while he tilts my head back, his soft lips brushing mine, his hot tongue sweeping . . .

  The wisps of the dream fade and I crack a lid. The fantasy breaks with the obnoxious sunlight screaming its wake-up call, along with my stupid phone. Sometimes I’m slutty in my dreams.

  I reach for the phone, remembering that Amie promised me a morning call, just in case I messed up my alarm, which has happened in the past. I was on the ball last night, though. I set three alarms, all within five minutes of each other so I wouldn’t have an opportunity to fall back asleep.

  “Rise and shine, Ruby! I’m your wake-up call!” How she manages to sound so damn chipper at seven-thirty in the morning after her engagement party is beyond me.

  A seal-like bark comes out when I attempt to grumble hello and tell her off for interrupting my dream.

  “Ruby? Are you there?”

  I make a second attempt at speaking but all I manage is another bark.

  “Do you have a bad connection? I told you not to go with the cheap provider. You know how terrible the reception is.”

  I clear my throat and immediately regret it, as it feels like knives are traveling up my esophagus.

  “Ruby?” Amie asks again and then sighs. “I’m hanging up and trying again.”

  Once the line goes dead I immediately hit the video call. Amie picks up right away. She’s wearing a white robe with her wavy hair pulled up into a ponytail, looking as fresh as baked bread out of the oven. I on the other hand, look like yesterday’s garbage based on the small image in the corner of my phone.

  “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

  I motion to my throat and shake my head. I give speaking another shot, just in case my inability to make more than random, audible sounds is a result of waking up. I usually don’t have to use words until after my morning coffee. All I get is another one of those squeaky moans and more sharp pain in my throat.

  Amie sucks in a gasp and slaps her hand over her mouth. “You have no voice!”

  I nod.

  “How are you going to audition?”

  The final dregs of sleep slip away. I mouth oh God. A mime is the only part I can audition for with no voice, or one of the dancer roles with no lines. They don’t make nearly as much money as central, or even secondary character, roles—which is what I’m hoping to score. The pay scale for that is far higher than for a lineless role. It definitely won’t cover the basics, like rent and food, let alone the minimum payments on my credit card. I’ve been banking on this audition to get me out of the hole I’ve dug for myself over the past few weeks.

  The phone conversation is pointless since Amie can’t read lips and I can’t respond. She tells me she’s coming over. I try to tell her not to bother, but again, with the lack of words it’s impossible to convey. I wait until she hangs up and text her to tell her it’s not necessary. Besides, this thing I have is clearly contagious since I must’ve gotten it from Awesome Kisser, and I don’t want to
pass it on to her. Damn Awesome Kisser—ruining the already questionable state of my life.

  I roll out of bed, the full-body ache hitting me with the movement. I must be dying. And I’m not just being dramatic. Every cell in my body hurts. I drag myself to the kitchen and fill the kettle. Maybe a lemon-honey hot water toddy will help restore my voice. Based on my recent unlucky streak, I have my doubts.

  I shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and root around in the medicine cabinet for some decent drugs. All I have is regular-strength Tylenol, so it’ll have to do. I climb into the shower without checking the temperature first—it takes forever to heat up and then fluctuates between lukewarm and scalding. I step under the spray during a scalding phase and huddle in the corner until it’s bearable.

  I’d like to say the shower helps me feel better. It does not. The warm water also does little to help my voice. Although I’m past just squeaking to barely audible one-word phrases, such as “ow.” I’m praying to the voice-miracle gods that the honey-lemon combo will further improve my ability to speak.

  Once out of the shower I doctor up my water, adding extra lemon and honey. Not only do I burn the crap out of my tongue, it feels like serrated blades coated in acid sliding down my throat. Still, I get dressed in basic black tights and a black tank with a loose, gauzy gray shirt over top. I dry my hair and put on makeup in hopes that appearing put together will make it so. I have to double up on powder when the effort to prepare my face causes me to sweat.

  I take a second hot lemon-honey toddy with me on the subway and arrive for my audition half an hour early. Not that my promptness matters. I’m still unable to speak above a whisper. My despair balloons like a marshmallow in the microwave at the mass of people performing voice warm-up exercises around me.

  I make an attempt to do the same, but the hoarse, croaklike sound is drowned out by the crystal clear voice of the perfectly gorgeous woman standing next to me. As I listen to the sound of a thousand soaring angels spew out of her mouth, I shiver with what I fear is the beginning of a fever. Sweat breaks out across the back of my neck and travels down my spine, along with a violent shiver. As if today could be any worse than it already is, my stomach does this weird, knotting thing.

  “Ruby Scott.”

  I glance at the director, who’s thankfully still looking fresh, and not beaten down by hundreds of craptastic auditions. Those are yet to come. I shoulder my bag and follow him to the theater.

  “You’re auditioning for the role of Emma today, correct?” He doesn’t give me a chance to confirm. “I’d like you to start with the song at the beginning of act two.”

  “Okay,” I croak feebly, cringing at the raspy sound. At least I can speak, even if I sound like a prepubescent boy with his nuts caught in his zipper.

  The director looks up from his clipboard, his frown an omen.

  “I seem to have lost my voice.” He has to strain to hear me.

  He heaves a frustrated sigh. “You can’t audition if you don’t have a voice.”

  “I didn’t want to miss it. Maybe I could audition for a dancer part?” Fewer words are better.

  He purses his lips. “Auditions for dancer roles aren’t until later in the week.”

  “I understand, but I’m here and if you can’t hear me sing, at least you could see me dance?” I fight the gag reflex as another wave of nausea hits me.

  He sighs and relents, gesturing to the stage. I thank him, then drop my bag at the edge of the stage and get into first position. My brain is foggy and my body aches horribly, but I can’t pass up this opportunity for a modest, yet steady income for a few months. I can’t afford to rack up additional credit card debt, and I don’t want to ask my father for more money, because that will make him aware of how much of a struggle this is. Then he’ll make his case for me to come work for him, as is his master plan. I know I can do this.

  The music cues up, and as I start to move my stomach does that rolling-heave thing again. There isn’t any food in it, but all of a sudden the honey-lemon water I consumed this morning decides to stage a revolt. I’m in the middle of a spin—not the best idea when nauseous—and the next wave hits me; violent and unrelenting.

  I attempt to keep my mouth closed, but the intensity of the spasm forces it open. I spray the stage with partially digested honey-lemon water, and what appears to be last night’s shrimp tarts and mushroom canapé appetizer dinner—in an Exorcist-like dramatic flair.

  And thus ends my audition.

  * * *

  It appears I should’ve come back later in the week for the dancer role auditions. No amount of apologizing can make up for my spray vomit. It doesn’t help that I’ve managed to hit the director with my impressive reach. I almost slip on my own puke spray in my haste to find the nearest bathroom, because a second wave is coming. I manage to make it to the hall, and a potted plant, before it hits. By round three I’m in the bathroom. Sadly, it’s a public stall, and based on the odor, the cleanliness is highly questionable. I wonder if it’s reflective of the success of this particular theater’s productions.

  I spend a good hour in there, moaning and crying until all I can do is dry heave.

  The worst part is that in my rush to find a bathroom to destroy, I forgot my purse in the theater. I’ll have to wait for a break in the auditions before I can sneak back in and retrieve it.

  Thankfully, it’s still at the edge of the stage, so I creep in, grab it, and haul ass—which is really a very slow and uncoordinated hobble-run—before the director has a chance to see me again, or I him.

  The subway ride home is perilous. People keep their distance, likely because I have the cold sweats and smell awful.

  Once home, I spend an uncountable number of hours on the bathroom floor, curled up with a towel as a blanket and a roll of cheap, rough toilet paper as a pillow.

  A knock on my door the following morning—I only know it’s morning based on the light pouring through my bathroom window—is the reason I pry myself away from my makeshift tile-floor bed.

  My body hurts, a lot. So does my head and every other part of me. I’m still dressed in my audition clothes. I smell like day-old vomit. Based on the stains on my gray shirt, I didn’t have the best aim yesterday. I rinse my mouth with water, and then mouthwash, but it burns, so I spit it out after a quick swish.

  I shuffle to the door and check the peephole before I open it. Occasionally solicitors manage to get into the building. I have no interest in someone trying to sway my political leaning or in adopting a new religion today. Although with the way I look I have my doubts anyone would want me to join their organization.

  It’s not a solicitor, it’s Amie. She never stops by unannounced. I’ve left the chain lock off, apparently unconcerned for my own safety, so I flip the deadbolt and open it.

  “Ruby Aster Scott, what is the meaning of this!” She holds a piece of paper in front of my face, too close for me to read.

  She drops her hand before I have a chance to take it from her. Also, my reflexes are slow.

  Her angry face becomes a shocked one. “Oh my God! What happened to you?” She pushes her way inside, almost knocking me over. Although I’m pretty unsteady on my feet, so I can’t blame it completely on her.

  Amie covers her mouth with her sleeve. “What’s the smell? Why haven’t you answered my calls? I was going to call the police!”

  “I think I have the flu,” I croak. I have more of a voice today than I did yesterday. Sort of.

  “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the past twenty-four hours. You can’t do that to me. Really? What is that smell?”

  “It’s probably me.”

  She drops her arm and sniffs. Her nose wrinkles. “You need a shower. Or a bath.” She surveys my apartment and her frown deepens.

  I’m admittedly not the best housekeeper. Until a few months ago, I had someone come in every other week to keep it manageable for me. When my father threatened to cut off his financial assistance a few months ago I cut
back on unnecessary expenses, which included Ursula. But, I’ll blame the current disorder on my illness.

  Amie’s expensive heels click across the floor as she heads for the bathroom. She gags her displeasure at the smell in there, which I assume is a more concentrated version of me.

  A pair of rubber gloves, some bathroom cleaner, a lot of complaining, and fifteen minutes of vigorous scrubbing, and my bathroom no longer smells like the Vomitron. Amie runs a bath in my freshly cleaned tub, pushes me inside, and closes the door.

  “Don’t come out for at least twenty minutes,” she yells from the other side.

  I’ve been friends with Amie since freshman year in prep school. We moved to NYC together five years ago for college. Of the two of us, she’s definitely the more successful. Although there is a big difference between a dual degree in business management and public relations and one in theater.

  In the two years since we’ve graduated she’s managed to turn her final internship at one of the most popular fashion magazines into a full-time job and she’s already been promoted once. On top of Amie’s fabulous job with its excellent paycheck, Amie has also managed to meet the man of her dreams—at least that’s what she claims—while I routinely manage a handful of dates before I tap out, or until they do when I don’t put out. Or I’m kissed by germ-infested strangers with an angry date. I wonder if this is karma’s way of trying to tell me something. And if so, what exactly is the message? Don’t use the bathroom? Don’t suck on lollipops? Be sluttier?

  I must fall asleep in the tub, because I startle at the knock on the door. “Ruby? It’s been more than half an hour. Are you still alive?”

  “I’ll be out in five!” I call in my broken, craggy voice.

  The water has cooled and I shiver as I rush through washing my hair and my body. I feel a lot more human and a lot less barfy after I’m clean. Exiting the bathroom I find Amie has tidied my apartment.

  The garbage and dirty dishes that were stacked in the sink and on the counter have either been thrown out or washed. My sheets have been changed, and the pile of clothes on the floor is now crammed into my laundry basket.