Loose Screws Read Online Free PDF

let my emotions control me, to make decisions based on reason and logic, not on passion and impulse.
    That I am not my mother.
    And at that moment tranquility rippled through me. Or it might have been a breeze from the open kitchen window. But for just a few seconds there, I felt that everything was going to be okay, that maybe the storm had tipped my boat, but it was completely within my power to right it again.
    I stretched, popping the knotted-up muscles at the base of my neck. “He was very apologetic, though.” My voice seemed eerily level, even to my own ears. “I mean, he’s not sticking me with the rest of the bills or anything.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œYou’re scaring me.”
    â€œScaring you? Why?”
    â€œAren’t you supposed to be incoherent and breaking things right about now?”
    I wasn’t sure whether to be dumbfounded or indignant. “That would be like me saying all men sit around every Sunday afternoon, watching sports and stuffing their faces with nachos and pork rinds.”
    â€œYeah. So?”
    I huffed a little sigh. “Greg didn’t.”
    â€œNo, all he did was go AWOL on your wedding day.”
    I frowned. Just a tiny one, though. “But he said—”
    â€œI don’t give a shit what he said. Guy doesn’t even have the balls to tell you in person. He treated you like dirt, Ginger. Like I should’ve called you after…you know. Paula’s wedding. But I didn’t. And even though I was only twenty-one and still functioning on half a brain, that still makes me scum, which I can live with. But what that guy did to you…dammit! Why aren’t you more pissed?”
    â€œBecause anger is counterproductive—”
    â€œThat’s bull. And holding it in isn’t healthy.”
    â€œThen you must not be paying attention in those anger management classes they make you take,” I said, feeling my face redden. What the hell was this guy trying to do to me?
    â€œManaging it isn’t the same as stifling it.”
    â€œSpeaking of stifling it—”
    â€œI bet you’re even still wearing his ring.”
    â€œThat’s none of your bus—”
    â€œTake it off, Ginger. Now.”
    That’s when, in the process of swiping my hand across the face, I scraped my nose with one of the prongs (something I’d managed to do at least once a day since I put the damn thing on, if you want to know the truth), which was just enough to send me over the edge. So I yanked off the ring and hurled it against the counter backsplash. The clatter was surprisingly loud. And satisfying.
    â€œIs it off?” Nick said.
    â€œI hope you’re alone,” I said, suppressing the urge to paw through my cookbooks before the roaches carted it off (yeah, we got ’em on the East Side, but they’ve got little Louis Vuitton gold initials all over them), “because do you have any idea how your end of the conversation sounds—”
    â€œIs…it…off?”
    â€œYou know, you’ve got a real problem with patience—”
    â€œGoddammit, Ginger—”
    â€œYes, Nick. The ring is off. Happy?”
    â€œDelirious. Did you throw it?”
    I shoved my hair out of my face. “Yeah. As a matter of fact, I did—”
    â€œHard?”
    With a weighty sigh, I hauled myself off the stool, leaned over to squint at the backsplash. Sure enough, there was a tiny scratch. Which I will swear was there when I moved in. Since I was in already in the neighborhood, I picked up the ring, then I sat back down with a grunt, twiddling the bauble between my thumb and index finger. “Hard enough.”
    â€œGood,” Nick said, with a note of my-work-here-is-done accomplishment in his voice. “Anyway. Just wanted to touch base. Let you officially know you’re in the clear.”
    â€œOh. Yeah. Thanks.”
    Silence strained across the