The woman snorted and flapped both hands at me, then retreated behind her door with a slam.
I glanced down at my boobs that were pushing out of the bustier and had to laugh. I was still encased in the latex and vinyl of my show outfit and sweating like a bitch. The old lady probably thought I was a prostitute. Sweat trickled down my back and I could feel it along my sides where the corset-like top squeezed me. Going outside in the heat had been a bad idea.
I crushed out my cigarette under my boot and headed back to Jonah’s apartment, praying I hadn’t locked myself out. Not only had I not locked myself out, I’d left the door slightly ajar.
Nice, I thought. He lets you crash and you leave his door open.
The apartment complex didn’t exactly scream wealth and riches lie within, but Jonah had his beautiful blown glass. They looked valuable to me.
Back inside the merciful air conditioning, I sat back on the couch and pulled off my boots. My fishnets were torn in a dozen places. I took them off too, closed my eyes in relief and stretched my legs. The cigarette had done nothing for my hangover. My tongue felt too big and my teeth tasted like I hadn’t brushed them in a week. Maybe Jonah had some mouthwash. Or I could finger-brush my teeth with his toothpaste.
After taking a short pee in the one bathroom in the place, I went to wash my hands in the sink. I expected to find all kinds of scary guy-living-alone nastiness—shaving residue, or phlegm wads. During the short time I lived with Chett, he was always leaving disgusting messes in the sink or toilet.
Jonah was not Chett.
Like the rest of his place, the sink area was clean and uncluttered. I started to rinse my hands, but the reflection in the mirror stopped me cold.
What was left of my eye makeup was smeared down my cheeks, as if I’d been crying. My lipstick had left a pale red stain under my lower lip, like some kind of rash. My hair was a tangled mess and my pale skin appeared sallow under the fluorescent lights. Mortification that I had been sitting around talking to Jonah like this all morning punched me in the gut.
“God, Kacey…”
I cleaned up the smeared eyeliner and lipstick with toilet paper, then opened the medicine cabinet in search of toothpaste. I froze at what I saw.
The Crest and the Listerine were there, but they were crowded out by row after row of medication. Orange pill bottles with white caps as far as the eye could see.
“Holy drugstore, Batman.”
I turned some of the bottles my way to read the names. None were remotely familiar.
Prednisone. Rapamune. Gengraf. Cyclosporine. Norvasc.
“What the fuck?” I turned more labels to face me. Some had names I thought I recognized from TV ads: pain meds, a few for high blood pressure, two for lowering cholesterol, and one bottle of antibiotics.
Why would a young guy need meds for cholesterol and blood pressure?
The pink seam of the scar on Jonah’s chest reared its head in my memory. Some kind of heart condition? That would explain the anti-smoking and the small pharmacy he had going on in this medicine cabinet.
I closed the cabinet door quickly, toothpaste forgotten, feeling like I’d just walked in on someone naked or had read a highly private diary entry. I left the bathroom and went into the kitchen in search of more water. I needed to wash out the bad taste in my mouth from having snooped into Jonah’s life.
In the fridge, I found the bottled water Jonah mentioned and not much else. Some wilting vegetables, packaged salads, and at least three trays of various casseroles covered in tin foil. I gave a peek in the freezer, taking a moment to appreciate the cold air, and saw more packaged food: Lean Cuisine and ‘heart healthy’ brands, as if Jonah were on a diet.
This was not the fridge of a typical Las Vegas bachelor.
And the medicine cabinet is?
My stomach twisted with nerves instead of hunger. I’d never been good around sick people. I never knew the right thing to say, could never find the right balance between sympathy and pity. I clammed up during any kind of health discussion and hospitals gave me the absolute heebie-jeebies.
You’re being stupid. You need to eat. You haven’t eaten since…
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten. Apparently I was on a diet too. A liquid diet.
A bowl of cereal might be safe. I opened a few cabinets, looking for a plain old box of Cheerios. Instead, I found a shit-ton of vitamins, supplements, and protein powders.
I closed that cabinet in a hurry.
“Dammit.”