LITMIR.BIZ

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clothes, your saddest face, and pay your respects. This act must be accompanied, of course, by a homemade dish to feed the mourning relatives of the recently departed.

      Freshly prepared food had been replaced by stopping at any given superstore and buying a tray of assorted meats, cheeses, and vegetables. My kitchen table and counter looked like the deli aisle.

      “You outdid yourself with the service. It was beautiful. Of course, I had no doubts it would be, since you plan everything out to the minutest detail, even when overcome with grief. You’ve always been such a rock.”

      The voice of my best friend Elizabeth (and neighbor, three doors down) made me smile. Elizabeth and I had maintained our friendship since second grade, and she was the only person in the world I truly trusted.

       Rule Number Seventeen: Have a best friend to lean on, gossip with, shop, drink, cry to.

      Check!

      “Thanks, Liz. I still can’t believe she’s gone. It hasn’t really sunk in yet, you know?”

      Liz nodded while picking up a tray of full wine glasses. She nudged me aside. “Here, let me. You look tired, and it’s not your job to cater to these fools. They are supposed to be helping you get through this, not looking for a free meal and drinks. Go and have a smoke out back. I can tell you need one. Oh, and listen—Sasha just told me she canceled book club this week. We’ll pick up next Friday, okay? Give those dumb hags who always complain they haven’t finished the book time to do so. Maybe we can actually discuss the book rather than listen to them gossip.”

      Shoulders sagging with relief, I smiled. “You’re a gem. Is she here? I haven’t seen her.”

      Liz frowned. “Honey, you seriously need to get some rest. Better yet, let me get Roger to give you some pills that are guaranteed to knock you out for a week. Your mind is on the fritz from all the grief.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “She’s still out front talking to Mr. Shock, just like you were less than three minutes ago.”

      Annoyed by yet another silly game of Let’s Confuse Roxy that people had been playing on me during the last few months, I said: “Today’s not the day to mess with me, Liz.”

      A wounded look creased her brow. “I’m not joking, Roxy. You were just talking to her. Lord, did you get any sleep at all last night?”

      “Pft. Sleep? I haven’t had time to do much of anything except plan a funeral. Not even sure I put deodorant on today, so I’m not surprised a superficial conversation with Sasha and Mr. Shock slipped my mind. It doesn’t really matter. I’m not in the mood to listen to her today, so please tell her I’m grateful. I’ve been looking forward to the discussion. It was our first ever erotic romance, so things might get really interesting! I’ll be right back. If I don’t inhale some nicotine, I’ll snap.”

      Elizabeth’s perfectly waxed eyebrow lifted in curiosity. When surprised or amused, Elizabeth Gelmini Rosenbaum was downright gorgeous. “I thought you already snapped once today? From my perspective in the back, it looked like Rachel’s boyfriend got an earful of foul words. I didn’t think it was possible for him to be any paler. Boy was I wrong.”

      “Men don’t take being threatened with castration very well,” I answered, chuckling. “He’s damn lucky the alcohol in my system saved his little nutsack from getting whacked off.”

      “Roxy!” Liz gasped. “Shh! Save that sort of talk for when we’re alone!”

      Heat raced to my cheeks. Normally, I only let my demented thoughts escape my lips within hearing range of my bestie. “What can I say? It’s been a really difficult two weeks. Better to only say my sick thoughts than actually commit the act, right?”

      “True.”

      Rebecca strolled—no, she wobbled—up beside us. During the last hour, I’d counted six glasses of wine disappear down her throat, compared to my measly two. She was a drunken mess, which wasn’t a first. An intimate relationship with alcohol was another thing she’d inherited from our parents. Of course, I did too, so I really couldn’t count that as a demerit against her or I’d have had to add it to my bag as well.

      Good thing she lived only a block away, or she’d take out anything and everything in her path driving the enormous SUV Stephen bought her last year. The Escalade sported every single option, and even had a personalized license plate with L.B.’s name on it. Er, well, her real name, not my preferred name for her. (Score one for Stephen and Rebecca Wilson—they passed Rule Number Eight with flying colors!)

      The fancy silk dress she’d purchased from Nordstrom for just this solemn occasion, the perfectly applied makeup and stellar hairdo (thanks to some very expensive trips to the salon to attach extensions probably made from horse hair!) didn’t hide the fact ol’ L.B. was bombed.

      Pointing a well-manicured finger behind her, Rebecca muttered, “Uh, Roxy? You might need to pay more attention to Carl. He’s ogling the Shock’s daughter again. You know, Cherrywood Estate’s resident Kardashian wannabee? Guess in the midst of his sorrow, he’s forgotten Coco’s underage. Maybe you should go remind him before he gets into trouble? If Mr. Shock catches a glimpse of the eye-fuck Carl’s giving Coco, he’ll beat your worthless hubby within an inch of his life.”

      Liz gasped, gave me a sheepish smile and then turned tail and headed to the living room to pass out more booze. I contemplated asking her to come back and give me the tray so I could storm over and dump it on Carl’s crotch to cool the blood heading south.

      What little love I had left (and it was little—close to the size of a pea) for Carl from all of our years together vanished. Rage made my fingers tremble. How could he? At Rachel’s wake?

      It would take a lot for me to best Carl physically, so I turned the brunt of my anger toward Coco. Taking her down would be a piece of cake and oh-so enjoyable. Visions of wrapping my fingers around the girl’s slender neck, squeezing until her fake face turned three shades of purple, filled my mind. Oh, better yet! Grab a handful of the expensive, blonde extensions recently purchased by her mother, Elaine Shock (because her daughter was going to be “a famous model” after getting a nose job, silicone-infused lips, fake, human hair, and bonus! saline-filled breasts) and drown the little whore in the pool.

      No, that wouldn’t work. Those knockers were buoyant. Drowning the skank was out of the question.

      Coco. Who the fuck names their kid such a ridiculous name? Wait! I know the answer! A former beauty queen who married some real estate mogul, gained about 50 lbs, and spent the remainder of her life living vicariously through her daughter’s body, and had an obsession with Chanel.

      Yep! Nailed it!

      My cravings for nicotine disappeared. It was overshadowed by raw fury. Rebecca was right—Carl stood at the edge of the den while Coco leaned against the doorframe, her gazongas dangerously close to escaping the thin material covering them. And where was my husband’s gaze? Laser-beam focused on the boobs.

      Not in my house, in front of our friends and neighbors.

      No. Fucking. Way.

      It was one thing for Carl to self-abuse himself in front of a computer screen, drool and sperm shooting out of him like a 14-year-old boy, while staring at pixelated images. I’d learned to live with Carl’s porn addiction, but this? Practically popping a boner during Rachel’s wake? If left alone any longer, he’d start humping Coco’s leg.

      “Excuse me, L.B., I’ll be right back.”

      Rebecca downed the remainder of her drink, smearing the last traces of red lipstick, and laughed. “Let me know if you need help burying the body. Those breasts and her enormous ass added on at least twenty pounds. After all, what are sisters for if not to help hide a crime? You already look like a serial killer in that cheap dress. Seriously, Roxy, you could have at least bought a designer label for Rachel’s funeral. It’s disrespectful to look so damn frumpy.”

      Pulling

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