The Dead Romantics (10)

I gave her an exhausted look. She knew exactly where I was a year ago. Making depressing mac and cheese for a different reason.

She waved her hand dismissively. “Anyway, it’s nice to see he’s still in publishing, but at Falcon House’s romance imprint? Wow.”

I shrugged. “He probably likes romances? Do I know any books he worked on over at Elderwood?”

Rose put the packet of powdered cheese back into the box. “The Murdered Birds? The Woman from Cabin Creek?”

I stared at my roommate. “So . . . gothic murders?”

“Gruesome, morbid gothic murders. Like I’m talking Benji Andor is a modern-day Rochester, but without the wife in the attic. I hear he even had a fiancée once, but he left her at the altar.”

I gave Rose a look. “Do you even know what happens in Jane Eyre?”

“I’ve sorta half seen the movies. Anyway, that’s not the point. So, you have publishing’s hottest bachelor editing Ann’s books now. I can’t wait until he gets to your sex scenes. Seriously, they’re some of the best I’ve ever read, and I read a lot of smutty books. And fanfic,” she added as an afterthought.

“He won’t,” I deadpanned. “I have until tomorrow evening to turn in the book.”

“Wow, you really couldn’t get another extension, huh?”

I groaned and put my face in my hands. “No, and if I don’t turn it in, he’s getting legal involved. And then the cat’s out of the bag! Hi, I’m the ghostwriter! But I can’t even do ghostwriting properly, and then they’ll start wondering where Ann is, and then some really grizzled detective will come around questioning me and then everyone’ll start wondering if I murdered Ann Nichols—”

“Hon, I love you, but you’re jumping the shark here.”

“You never know!”

“Is she dead?”

“I don’t know! No!” Then, a bit calmer: “Probably not?”

“Why don’t you just tell your editor about being her ghostwriter?”

I sighed. “I couldn’t. You should’ve seen the way he looked at me when I asked to write a sad romance instead. It was like I killed his favorite puppy.”

“You say that like he’d have more than one puppy.”

“Of course. He seems like a multi-dog kinda person. But not the point. The point is, I didn’t. Couldn’t.”

“So instead, you’re going to ruin your career and disappoint your one literary hero.”

My shoulders drooped. “Yeah. Now can I please eat my mac and cheese and wallow in my despair?”

Rose’s face turned to stone. “No,” she said as sharply as her cat eyeliner, and grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me out of the kitchen and down the hallway to our bedrooms. “C’mon. We are going out. We are forgetting our worries. We are going to conquer this stupid, loud, exhausting city tonight! Or die trying!”

At the moment, I’d rather have died.

Rose’s closet was full of fashion. It was a runway in our apartment. Beautiful sparkly dresses and soft blouses and pencil skirts with a slit just low enough to be work appropriate. Rose took out a short black dress, the one she had been trying to make me wear for at least a month now, and finally her evil plan was coming to fruition.

I shook my head. “No.”

“C’monnnn,” Rose pleaded, presenting the dress to me. “It’ll really make your ass pop.”

“I think you mean my ass will pop out of it.”

“Floreeeeeeence,” she whined.

“Roooose,” I whined back.

She frowned. Narrowed her eyes. And said—

“Catawampus.”

My eyes widened at the word. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper-warned.

“Cat-a-wam-pus,” she enunciated, and there it was. Our emergency word. The word with no arguments. It wasn’t a request anymore—it was an order. We allowed each other one a year. “You aren’t an old spinster in a tower, and you’ve been acting like it for too long, and honestly? I should’ve done this sooner. If you aren’t making progress on your stupid story—”

“It’s not stupid!”

“—then there’s no use sitting here eating depression mac and cheese and getting drunk alone on Two-Buck Chuck. Cat-a-wam-pus.”

I glared at her. She smirked, crossing her arms over her chest, triumphant.

I threw up my arms. “Fine! Fine. I will only do this if you promise to do the dishes for the next month.”

“Week.”

“Deal.”

We shook on it.

Somehow, I had the feeling that she got the better end of the deal, and my suspicions were confirmed when she said, “Now get naked and put this on. We’re going to get you in trouble tonight and find you some inspiration to kiss.”

“I don’t need trouble to—”

“Naked! Now!” she cried, and pushed me out of her room and into my own and shut me inside. I stared down at the dress in my hands. It wasn’t that bad. Sure, it was way too short for my liking and it had at least a hundred too many sequins, and it probably cost more than an entire month of rent, but it wasn’t the gaudiest thing in Rose’s wardrobe. (That went to the rainbow number she broke out every June for the Pride Parade. There were strangers we never saw the rest of the year who recognized her in that dress every single Pride.) The dress wasn’t really my taste, but maybe that’s exactly what I needed.