“And he won’t know what the hell. He’s not going to golf until he gets somebody to pay the indoor fee, so that can’t come back on me. The socks will make him crazy.”
“He’ll figure it happened at the dry cleaners. He deserves it. A guy who has his socks dry-cleaned deserves it.”
“Yeah. And the itching powder? He’ll go screaming to the doctor, figuring he’s got a new allergy. Fuckball.”
“Fuckball,” her friend agreed, righteously, as they finally reached the fourth floor. “Moment of truth, Sima.”
On a long breath, Sima steadied herself. Climbing three flights, dressed in her winter coat, scarf, boots, hat—December 2060 was as bitter as her heart—she had worked up a little sweat.
She pulled out the key again, crossed the fingers of her free hand, swiped.
Locks thumped open.
Sima gave a triumphant hoot, and was immediately shushed.
“You want the neighbors poking out?”
“No, but—” Before she could finish, Sima found herself pushed inside with the door quietly, firmly closed behind her.
“Turn on the lights, Sim.”
“Right.” She hit the switch, then hissed, “Look at this mess! I haven’t been gone a week, and he’s already got crap tossed everywhere. Look in there!” She walked toward the kitchen bump as she pointed. “Dirty dishes, takeout boxes. I bet there’re bugs. Ew, I bet there’re bugs in here.”
“What do you care? You don’t live here, so you don’t have to pick up his mess or worry about bugs.”
“But still. And look at the living room. Clothes tossed all over, shoes just— Hey!” She marched over, picked up a scarlet-red high heel, then scooped up a bra with yellow polka dots over purple lace.
“I never noticed any trany tendencies.”
“Because he doesn’t have any!”
“I know, Sim. It’s like we all told you. He only booted you because he sniffed up a new skirt. And jeez, it’s been like a week since he did the booting, so you have to figure . . . Don’t blubber,” she ordered as Sima started to do just that. “Get even! Come on.”
Focused on the task at hand, she pulled the shoe, the bra away, tossed them down again, took Sima’s arm. “I’ll get you started on the socks.”
“I sort of loved him.”
“Sort of is sort of. He treated you like crap, so you pay him back, then you can move on. Trust me.”
Sima’s tears-and-tequila-blurred eyes tracked back to the bra. “I want to bust something up.”
“You’re not going to. You’re going to be smart and hit him where it hurts. Vanity and wallet, then we’re going to go do some more shots.”
“Lots of them.”
“Bunches of lots of them.”
Sima squared her shoulders and nodded. With her hand in her friend’s—moral support—they started toward the bedroom she’d shared for seven and a half weeks with her cheap, cheating, callous boyfriend.
“He didn’t even put up any Christmas decorations. He has a cold heart.”
She couldn’t have been more right.
Trey Ziegler sat propped on the bed, the long chestnut-and-gold-streaked hair he was so proud of matted with blood. His eyes—most recently tinted emerald green—staring.
The kitchen knife jammed in his cold heart pinned a cardboard sign to his well-toned chest. It read:
Santa Says You’ve Been Bad!!!