Loose Screws by Karen Templeton Read Free Book Online Page A

feel you have to line a greedy land-lord’s pockets for a space this small. Honestly, honey—you could drown in your own sneeze in here.”
    â€œThe place is rent-stabilized,” I say. “Which you know. And it’s mine.” Well, for all intents and purposes. “And it’s a damn good thing I didn’t let it go, considering…things.” I clear my throat. “What’s in the bag?”
    â€œRavioli. Nonna made it this morning. And you could live with Nonna and me, you know. Especially now that I’ve moved all my stuff up front to the dining room, since we don’t really need it anymore, so there’s an extra room besides the third bedroom, you could use it for an office or studio or something. I mean, c’mon, think about it—even if you split the rent with me, think how much money you’d save, and have twice the space besides.”
    Twice the space, but half the sanity. I cross to thekitchen, remove the plastic container from the bag. “Right. You wanna take bets on who would kill whom first? Besides, you actually expect me to believe those rooms are vacant? ”
    My childhood memories are littered with images of tripping over the constant stream of strays my parents took in, friends of friends of friends who needed someplace to crash until they found a place of their own, or the grant money came through, or whatever the excuse du jour was for their vagrancy. I never got used to it. In fact, every time I got up in the middle of the night and ran into a stranger on my way to the bathroom, I felt even more violated, more ticked, that my space had been invaded. Which is why, I suppose, despite the pain of paying rent on my own, I’ve never been able to stomach the idea of a roommate. Not one I wasn’t sleeping with, at least.
    And Nedra is well aware of my feelings on the subject, that much more than the normal grown child’s need for independence propelled me from her seven-room, rent-controlled nest. Unfortunately, what I call self-preservation, she has always perceived as selfishness.
    â€œI don’t do that anymore,” she says quietly. “Not as much, anyway.” I snort, shaking my head. “Look, I’m not going to turn away someone who genuinely needs my help,” she says, almost angrily. “And, anyway, Miss High and Mighty, since when is it a crime to help people out?”
    I look at her, feeling old resentments claw to the surface. But I say nothing. I’m feeling fragile enough as it is; I have no desire to get into this with her right now. Which is, duh, why I didn’t want to be around her to begin with.
    Then she sighs. “But I am more cautious than I used to be. I don’t take in total strangers the way Daddy and I used to. Not unless I have some way of checking them out.” She rams her hand through her hair, frowning. “It upsets your grandmother, for one thing.”
    Well, good. At least her mother-in-law’s getting some consideration, even if her daughter didn’t. I notice, however, she doesn’t contradict me about the killing-each-other part of my observation.
    I return my attention to the plastic container of pasta inmy hands. Defying their imprisonment, the scents of garlic and tomato sauce drift up. Traditional, artery-clogging ravioli, stuffed with plain old meat sauce, the pasta made with actual eggs. My knees go weak. I put the container in my empty fridge, make a mental note to call Nonna when I get back to thank her—
    â€œI’m sorry, sweetheart,” Nedra says softly. So softly, in fact, I look up in surprise.
    â€œAbout?” I ask, since I don’t think we’re talking about the Hotel Petrocelli anymore.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    Ah. I almost smile. “Oh, right. You hated Greg, you detest his family and everything they stand for. I somehow don’t think you’re real torn up that it didn’t work