How To Look Good When You're Dead: A Zombie-Survival Guide, #1

By Gabrielle Garbin

Getting dumped a month before her wedding seems like the worst thing that could happen to celebrity blogger and relationship guru, Julia Emery, that is, until she finds herself staggering around in full zombie-mode, eating small animals, and trying not to lose body parts. Once her unconventional doctor confirms that she is now one of the newest members of the living dead community, Jules becomes desperate to find a cure for her condition before she eats someone she loves. How To Look Good When You're Dead is satire filled with enough irreverence to satisfy even the most twisted sense of humor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gabrielle Garbin
• Release date: May 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533716484

Gabrielle Garbin

I love books and I read across multiple genres. I suppose it should come as no surprise that I write across multiple genres, too. How To Look Good When You're Dead is my debut novel, filled with love, romance, heartbreak, getting dumped, getting dead, and a host of crazy characters figuring out how to live with a new set of rules. If you like witty, snarky characters who get into one scrape after another, and you don't mind that no politicians were spared during the writing process, this is the book for you! For free samples, follow me on Bublish.com, or go to my website, http://www.gabriellegarbin.com and sign up for a free download.

Book preview

Prologue

June 4th , 2018

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My bed was piled with clothing. Men’s clothing. Lying in the middle of shirts, pants and sweat suits, smelling his smell, I knew exactly how pathetic I was, knew that the tears leaking nonstop from my eyes were pathetic, too. This wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, but it felt that way.

A rap at my door caught my attention and I turned to see my roommate, Kim, standing in the doorway.

Jules? she called tentatively, and then, Oh, Jules.

The pity etched across her features was enough to make the old Jules sick—the one who wrote two best selling books: Jules Rules For Winning The Game Of Love and Everyday Jules—sick. If my fans could see me now…

Kim sank down on the bed beside me and brushed the damp strands of hair from my face.

How about something to eat? Chocolate ice-cream? Chocolate…anything?

Do we have any Ben and Jerry’s left?

She nodded, went to the kitchen, and returned with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Hazed and Confused hazelnut and chocolate ice cream and a spoon. I pushed myself up and dipped a spoon into the softened ice cream and took a bite, the sweetness tinged with the saltiness of tears that gathered in the corner of my mouth.

It’s soft, I murmured taking another bite.

I put it out on the counter this morning, when I…when he… Kim struggled with the words that she knew would pierce my heart.

When Colin left, I finished for her.

Her pretty face was crinkled with concern, her soft blue-gray eyes watching my every move.

Sweetie, I said around a mouthful of ice cream, you’re making me nervous. Can you give me a little space?

Of course! She jumped to her feet, tucked her robe tighter around her body, and made for the door.

No, Kim, you don’t have to leave.

But you said you needed space.

I just wanted you to scoot back a little. I was starting to feel a little like mold in a petri dish.

She giggled and sat on the foot of my bed.

Sorry. I’m just worried about you, she said, rubbing my foot, realized she was hovering again and shoved her hands in the pocket of her robe.

I know. I’m worried about me, too. I can’t seem to stop this, I said, pointing to my leaking eyes. It’s weird. It’s like my body can’t stop crying.

Yeah. I read somewhere that depression can also make you have pain in weird places, like a twinge in your side or your foot.

I’m not depressed. I may be depressed tomorrow, but today, I’m just plain old devastated.

Bastard! she said, her eyes flinty, looking at a picture of Colin and me on the nightstand next to my bed.

I flipped the picture to face the wall. I got dumped, Kim. It happens.

"Not by a decent guy, and absolutely not a month before your wedding! Jules, I know you’re not ready to hear this, but—,"

You’re right, Kim. I’m not ready to hear it.

Sighing, she stood and stretched, her robe falling open. I could see a well-muscled thigh clad in tights beneath her robe.

Do you have audition?

She pulled the robe tight again.

Nah, I slept in my clothes last night. We rehearsed so late, I was exhausted. I collapsed on the bed as soon as I got home. I was heading to take a shower but I wanted to see how you were first.

I’m okay, hon. I’m going to take a shower myself and get ready for work.

I don’t know, Jules. You’re a little pale. Maybe you should give yourself another day.

In a flurry of kicked covers and pillows, I dashed for the attached bathroom, flicked on the light switch, closed the door, and threw up one hundred percent of the ice cream.

Maybe you’re right, I called, splashing cold water on my face.

I’ll call Simon and tell him you’ve come down with a bug. You crawl right back into bed.

Don’t bother. I’m working from home today anyway. If I need another day, I’ll call him.

Kim tucked the covers around me. "Okay, but text me if you need anything. Promise?" She picked up a pillow encased in a blue silk sham and held it, a look of something just shy of murder on her face. I reached out my hand and, reluctantly, she handed over the pillow.

Jules…

I know, but it smells like him. The tears resumed their steady flow from my sore swollen eyes, pooling and staining the cover.

I was going to bring you a box of tissues, Kim said, but I think Colin’s pillow will be fine. And hey, if you’re out of toilet paper…

Laughing and coughing at the same time, I dried my eyes on the bottom of the T-shirt I had worn to bed last night. His T-shirt.

Thirty minutes later, the door closed followed by the sound of Kim’s little white VW bug starting. The house, a two bedroom Georgian terraced townhouse, built in 1910, was silent with only the occasional groaning of a pipe or the creaking of joints common to all old houses. A ray of sun mocked my morose mood, piercing the blinds, shattering the darkness, exposing my hiding place. Should I gather my legs under me like an unhappy insect, and scurry around the apartment, pretending to be okay with the direction my life was taking? What would I tell a reader to do?

I padded in sock-covered feet across the bumpy dark wood floors to the dresser on the other side of the room.

Hello Dear Reader, I said to a puffy Julia with a bright red nose that looked twice its normal size from constant blowing and wiping. My thick dark hair was matted on the right side, both eyes swollen and red-rimmed. Touching the corner of one eye gingerly, I winced.

"The worst thing that can happen to you has happened and my advice to you is to wallow in self pity for the rest of your life. Yes, Dear Readers, I am a hypocrite. When you’re going through the worst thing that can happen to you, I tell you to get off your ass, but when it happens to me, I parade around in my ex-fiancé’s T-shirt and build shrines of his discarded clothes, that I pull around me for comfort, while I chase the sleep that won’t come."

Walking to the beautiful hand carved armoire that once stood in my grandmother’s New Orleans home, I tugged the brass pulls and the doors opened. A knot lodged in my throat that I couldn’t swallow. Running my fingers along the tops of satin covered hangers, I stopped at the large garment bag at the end of the rod.

Stop it! I yelled at myself. This was equivalent to emotional cutting. My hand moved as if it belonged to someone else. Spreading the bag on the bed, I unzipped it and removed the dress. It flowed from the bag in a cloud of silk, tulle, and lace. Hanging it on the open door of the armoire, I stood back and tried to envision myself walking down the aisle in it. I’d practiced this exercise before. Slipping off the cotton shirt, I slid the dress over my head, the lace slightly scratchy against my bare breasts. There were one hundred buttons that I couldn’t fasten by myself. My mother wasn’t as busty, so it didn’t quite fit anyway.

My phone beeped and I picked it up, clicked off the pop-up reminder informing me that I had an appointment with Alyson in one hour. Scrolling through my contacts, I clicked on a name and hit the call button.

Alyson’s Alterations, a cheery voice, slightly muffled, answered. I could see Alyson, her head bent, pins in her mouth, trying to get the line of a skirt straight without stabbing her client.

One of these days, you’re going to choke on a pin, I said.

Oh, hey Jules! Hang on! Twenty seconds of mumbled conversation and a laugh, and she was back on the line, her lips clearly free of all pins.

I can’t wait to see you! I found this absolutely fabulous beading that will look stunning on the bodice!

Allie—,

"I know you’re worried about ruining your mom’s dress, and I can’t blame you, but this piece of lace has the most exquisite beading, and I also bought a butt-load of Swarovski crystals to—,

ALLIE! I sank onto the bed, my hand covering my mouth, trembling.

Jules, what’s wrong. What is it? I hear the wound in her voice. In the ten years she’s known me, I had never once yelled at her.

Allie…I…I’m not bringing the dress in today.

Why? Are you sick? It’s no problem for me to pick it up.

I’m not sick…I’m just not bringing the dress in today.

But Jules, I need ten days to—

I’m sorry Allie. I’ll explain later, but right now, I just can’t talk about it.

With a click and a toss of the phone onto the bed, it was done. I had canceled my only shot at getting my dress ready for my wedding. As soon as I hit the end button, my stomach clenched and panic filled me. What if Colin changed his mind? He’d been without me for twenty-four hours. It’s the first time we had been apart in the last four years. My racing thoughts buoyed me up and over the wave of depression that threatened to engulf me. I should go and see him, talk to him. He loves me! I know he does. No one throws away four years without warning. No one.

I paced the room, trying to remember his schedule, slapping my forehead when I recalled that he was leaving for a writer’s conference in Australia later this afternoon. Dashing to the bathroom, I turned on the shower, letting it run for the requisite three minutes if there was any hope for hot water. I had to get out of this dress and get it to Allie after all. Where was my phone?

Tossing clothes and pillows, digging for my cell phone, I saw it sticking out from under Colin’s pillow. Grabbing it, I dialed his number and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, the dress sliding from my shoulders, my breasts heaving, my pulse racing. As the phone rang, I closed my eyes against the image and I heard Colin’s voice, saw the tight lines around his mouth, the hardness to him the night before.

I can’t go through with it, Jules. I’m sorry.

I could see myself, wringing my hands, trying to throw my arms around his neck as he stiffened and backed away.

I could hear myself begging, him, Please, Colin. Please. Why? What happened? And a long while later asking, Is there someone else? and shriveling with his answer.

No…I’m just not happy. I haven’t been for a long time.

The voice at the other end of the line cut through the fabric of memory.

Julia?

His voice faded as I ended the call and walked, slowly to the mirror, searching the features of this desperate woman for any trace of the Julia Emery I knew.

Burying my face in my hands, I began to weep.

Chapter 1

Waking Up Dead

It was a night like any other, with one distinction. This would be the last night I would ever again be human.

My roommate, Kim, and I had gone clubbing. Kim kept pushing me to get out there, whatever that meant. I’d finally caved to her constant nagging, and sat nervously tapping my fingers on the bar, wondering how long I had to stay in order to avoid the appearance of rudeness.

Kim stood next to me, sucking on a straw buried in a tall fruity drink, eyeing the room.

Oh my god, Jules, will you stop with the anxiety attack?

I look like hell, I said, rubbing a hand over my hair.

Stop fishing for compliments! Your hair is to die for and you know it. Did you get a Brazilian from that new esthetician? she asked, looking at my bare legs.

I tugged down the edge of my suddenly too-short skirt and said, No! I got a good old fashioned bikini wax.

She punched my arm lightly. Aww, you should get a Brazilian. Guys love it!

Not the type of guy I want to attract.

She tried to whisper but resorted to shouting when her words were lost in the din of dance music and chattering patrons. Your type doesn’t exist.

Oh, my type exists. My type dumps me a month before the wedding.

Grabbing my barstool, she spun me around to face her. Stop giving that man the power to hurt you, Jules! You are Julia Emery, author of the hottest books ever written about getting and keeping a man.

I’m a fraud.

"No, you’re not. Colin is a tool. He’s not worth all this suffering. Now, drink up and go dance with one of the four guys checking you out at that table over there!"

I’m not ready to date. I’m still grieving, I said, sucking on a mojito.

It’s not dating, it’s dancing—and possibly sex. You remember sex, right?

I remember sex with Colin.

With a note of frustration, she said, It’s been months, Jules. He's moved on, and so should you. Honestly, there are dead people who are happier than you right now. You have to snap out of this pity party and get back in action. It wouldn’t kill you to make an effort to have some fun. And if you get laid in the process, even better!

Okay, but if I make a fool out of myself, it’s on your head, I conceded.

Awesome! she giggled, clapping her hands, sending half her drink splashing into her lap.

Shit! Watch my purse while I mop up.

A tall, good-looking man elegantly dodged a damp Kim, weaving through the press of bodies as she scurried to the bathroom. A drink in each hand, he leaned indolently against the wall next to our booth, cutting his eyes to me every so often. Kim was right. I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and make an effort.

That’s smart, I said, gesturing to his drinks, and tucking my hair behind my ear. Feeling more than a little out of practice, I folded my hands under my chin, smiling, hoping that my teeth didn’t fracture from the effort.

Excuse me?

Getting two drinks at once is smart. You can avoid the long lines.

He looked at the drinks, color creeping up his face to his ears. I liked a guy who could still blush.

Straining to be heard over the music, he said, Hey, what happened to your friend?

Clean up in aisle four.

Huh?

Sorry, I have a weird sense of humor. She spilled a drink in her lap.

Brr! That doesn’t sound like fun.

It’s not that unusual for Kim. She’s brilliant, but such a klutz! You’d never know she’s a force to be reckoned with on the dance floor. The music switched to a slow number, making my voice louder than it needed to be, but he didn't seem to notice.

Speaking of dancing, is it too soon to ask you to dance? Or should we make small talk for another ten minutes?

That depends. Are you going to drink both of those?

Extending his hand, he said, Not if you like Mojitos!

It’s only my favorite drink!

I waved a hand at the empty seat next to me. He slid a drink across to me and, just like that, the ice around my heart began to thaw.

His name was Nathan Lord. For the next hour, we danced and talked about his job managing a hedge fund, and my job writing a weekly advice column. He had a charming habit of running his finger through his thick brown hair.

We watched Kim break into a dance routine that always got the crowd going, clapping time to her feet. I always marveled at how she could move faster, and more gracefully than any human being I’d ever seen.

Nathan smiled, clapping with the crowd, "Wow! I’ve never seen her dance. She is talented."

A knot of apprehension made a pit in my stomach.

What did you just say?

He tugged at his collar and took a sip of his drink.

Nathan, do you know Kim?

He looked left and right, leaning in and whispering conspiratorially, I do.

Feeling the heat rise in my cheeks, I said, Are you telling me this is a set-up? Because, if it is, you should know that I don’t go on blind dates.

The dance number finished and a slow song flowed over us. I stared at Nathan and thought about the unlikeliness of meeting an available, model-handsome man on my first night out in six months.

The expression on his face told me that I was right. This wasn’t random good luck. I braced myself, knowing what he was going to say before he said it.

"I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but you are correct. This is a set-up."

I could feel a thundercloud of irritation rearranging my features into something stiff and unpleasant.

Say something, he said.

Sorry, I was making a mental note to kill Kim later.

Before you kill her, you should know that it’s not her fault. It’s mine.

So that whole spilling-the-drink thing was fake?

No, that was real! he said, laughing. Meeting here was my idea. I was afraid it would be awkward if I just came up to you and asked you out.

It would have been awkward, but at least it would have been honest.

I stared at my drink, wondering how quickly I could politely excuse myself.

He held up his hands, palm out. I’m sorry, Julia. I don’t go on blind dates, either, but you know how persuasive Kim can be. She said she had a gorgeous, single friend that would be perfect for me. I’m single, so I thought, what the hell. I didn’t know until a couple of days ago that her friend was Julia Emery, Relationship Guru, and the hottest celebrity blogger in America.

I said nothing as I drained the rest of my mojito. He signaled the waiter for another round.

Anyway, does it matter how we met?

I shredded a cocktail napkin.

He touched my hand lightly. Don’t disappear on me, Julia.

I looked up, mid-shred. You don’t know me.

"I’d like to get to know you. I already feel like I know you a little through your books. Did I say that I’m a big fan?"

Taking in my wary look, he held up a hand and leaned back in his chair. "Big fan, not a big stalker. Wow, I’m rambling here."

I know what you’re thinking, he said, eyes narrowed. You’re thinking, ‘This clown reads my books so he can figure out what makes women tick.’

Do you? I asked.

No, he said, his eyes serious and lips pursed. "I’m not some jackass who reads women’s self-help books to try to get a woman into bed. I was in a bad place last year. A friend gave me her copy of Jules’ Rules For Relationships. It sat on my nightstand for two weeks. Then one night I was bored, and feeling like shit, so I opened it. I was struck by how funny, honest, and insightful you were. I learned something, from you.

A few weeks later, Kim told me that you were her roommate, and my ears perked up. I wanted to meet you.

And now that you’ve met me? I challenged.

I think you’re funny, honest, and insightful. I get the feeling that you don’t play games.

I shredded another paper napkin and looked away, wishing Kim would bail me out of this awkward conversation. Then I remembered that she was directly responsible for my discomfort.

Nathan took my hand, lightly hooking his fingers through mine, and looked into my eyes.

I don’t want to scare you off, but I can’t start a relationship based on a lie. If you want me to go, I’ll go, but that would be really sad.

Relationship? I said, fighting a smile, absolutely not thinking about how good his hand felt in mine.

A guy can hope, can’t he?

The waiter arrived with our drinks. Nathan fished a credit card from his wallet and tossed it onto the tray, whispering into the waiter’s ear. I suspected it was something along the lines of ‘keep them coming.’

Cocking an eyebrow, I said, You’re wasting your money if you think you can get me drunk and take advantage of me. I grew up on a vineyard. I am genetically incapable of getting drunk on a few drinks. If you’re going to get me drunk, you’ll have to hit the ATM at least twice.

"I’ll let you in on a secret—and I’m turning into a girl as I say this—I am pretty much a lightweight when it comes to drinking, so I’m going to be in deep trouble if you decide to take advantage of me."

He frowned and leaned forward, his voice mockingly serious, Can I trust you not to take advantage of me, Julia Emery?

Of course, you can! I’m a very trustworthy person.

He sighed and sat back, feigning disappointment. "Now isn’t that just my luck? My date is drop-dead gorgeous and she’s too ethical to take advantage of a drunk man."

Relaxing a little, I teased, You managed to use gorgeous and date in the same sentence. I’m impressed.

He grinned and ran a hand through his hair again, making my insides flutter in old and familiar ways.

I have a confession to make, he said, a smile dimpling his left cheek.

Let me guess. You’re breaking up with me?

My lame attempt at being glib backfired. My words conjured up an image of Colin’s stony face as he casually destroyed my life with just a handful of words. I was suddenly aware of Nathan speaking, but it was as if we were at separate tables.

Julia?

Sorry, I just took a little impromptu side trip down breakup lane.

I’m really putting my foot in my mouth tonight. A tiny furrow creased the flesh above his nose, giving him a serious, almost stern look.

Somehow, I’d taken us from spontaneous to serious in less than ten minutes. That definitely wasn’t one of my famous Jules’ Rules. It was the exact opposite.

It’s not you. It’s me. I’m sorry for all the weirdness. It’s just that I haven’t been on a date since my ex-fiancé dumped me.

"I don’t want to put my foot in my mouth again, but maybe calling it off was the right thing to do if he wasn’t sure. You wouldn’t want to marry someone who doesn’t want to marry you, would you?"

No, I wouldn’t. I just wish he hadn’t waited until a month before our wedding to have his change of heart.

He broke up with you a month before the wedding? He pushed his hair back and leaned back in his chair. "Forget what I just said. That guy is a prick."

No, you’re right. We shouldn’t have gotten married if he wasn’t sure.

Nah, he’s a prick. Who proposes and then takes it back? A prick, that’s who.

He sat back, a look of discomfort dashing the charming man of just a few minutes before.

See, this is the problem with serious conversations, I stated.

He smiled. Hey, first dates—

I recoiled slightly and he held up a hand.

Backing up slowly from the ‘first date’ gaffe, he said carefully. Getting to know another person is always awkward. We’re just getting that part out of the way.

I’d seen other women ogling him from a distance, and here I was, sitting with this great, gorgeous guy, and blowing it with every word, every gesture. Taking a breath, I touched his hand. Without hesitation, he wrapped his fingers through mine, making my breath catch a little as I spoke.

I know you were expecting this sassy, funny woman who sells other women—and men, surprisingly—on how to survive in the dating world, but I’m just not that woman right now, I admitted. I’m still in the trenches of a bad breakup. Coming out with Kim tonight is just me sticking my head out from the proverbial foxhole. I thought I was better, but I’m still gun-shy, waiting for the next bullet to whiz past my head. So, when you said you had a confession to make, it triggered a painful memory.

Something Mr. Prick said?

I laughed and nodded, surprised at the sudden lightness of my mood. Maybe confession was good for the soul.

I’m afraid so. He said he had a ‘confession’ to make, and then he broke up with me. I had to cancel all the wedding arrangements. It was the darkest day of my life.

Nathan pulled me forward slightly and encased both of my hands in his, stroking my wrists lightly with his thumbs. The feeling was so delicious I had to remind myself that months of celibacy was not a reason to sleep with a man I’d just met, no matter how charming and emotionally available he seemed.

Kim filled me in about the breakup.

I felt my face freeze into a smile, wondering just how much she’d told him.

You knew? And you let me go on like that?

He rushed to reassure me.

I had no idea it was that bad. She just told me the general stuff. That you’d broken up with your fiancé. I just wish I’d chosen my words more carefully. I was trying to be clever so you’d like me.

Smiling, I pulled my hands away and wrapped them around my mojito.

You didn’t know. I’m sorry for making a big deal out of it.

We sat in silence, me shredding yet another cocktail napkin while he played with the drops of condensation on his glass.

Hoping to lighten the mood, I said, In all this he-dumped-me drama, you never told me your confession.

After taking a sip from his drink, Nathan took a deep breath and said, I was going to say that I read your column.

Uh-oh, I said, feeling a real smile coming on, "you know what they say about my devoted male readers."

He held up his hand to stop me before I could speak. I started reading it after I read the book. I’m not gay and I can prove it.

Maybe we should get to know each other a little better before you confirm your straightness, I said, laughing. Besides, what’s wrong with being gay?

Absolutely nothing, except in the case of a guy who’s trying to pick up a beautiful woman. Then it tends to be a mood killer.

Unless you’re a beautiful woman, too. Then it might work out okay.

Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a beautiful lesbian, either.

I’m flattered that you like my column.

What’s not to like? You say what everyone else is thinking. I mean, no-holds-barred, in-your-face honesty. I love the way you hold your own at celebrity gigs. You don’t back down. You’ll do anything to promote your magazine. And the way you handled Howard… he sat back. Am I babbling? I’m babbling!

Not at all, I said.

Nathan narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

Okay, you’re babbling a little. I said, trying not to smile

I hate it when I babble!

You should probably cut back on the caffeine.

I’m just a little nervous. I’m trying to sell you on my sensitive-guy image. Are you buying it?

"I think you’re really nice, and very sexy, but you’re dead wrong about one thing. I have limits. I won’t do just anything to promote the magazine or the column."

Tell me more, he said, leaning close and fingering a strand of my hair before tucking it behind my ear. His amber colored eyes searched mine.

I turned down a second guest spot on Howard’s show.

No way! He leaned back in mock horror. Did he try to get in your pants?

"You said you listened to the show. Don’t you remember? He wanted me to display my—how did he put it—rack?"

I did listen to that episode! He shook his head, making a tsk-tsk sound in mock disapproval. "That is such a Howard cliché."

Isn’t it?

So you said no to a second appearance. Then what?

I try to keep it light, but I did call a local meat market and have them send him a very large turkey breast the next day.

Ouch! And may I say, touché!

He clinked my glass so hard that he up-ended his drink, scrambling for napkins and blotting the spill as he talked.

What was Howard’s reaction?

Actually, he was pretty classy. He sent me roses and invited me to come on as a legitimate guest to talk about my column."

I’ve always thought there was more to Howard than all that show-me-your-tits hype. Do you have more stories like that? You must get some really crazy emails from your readers.

I do, but enough about me. Tell me some of your funny client stories.

Sweetheart, I am a hedge fund manager. There is nothing funny about that.

Laughing, I said, No, I guess not. Well, I do have more stories. Are you sure you want to hear more?

By all means, he said, but I think we need a refill.

"Are you sure you’re not trying to get me drunk so you can get into my pants?" I said, jokingly.

Well, any guy would be thinking about getting into your pants, but I’m actually trying to get in here, he said, gently tapping a finger on my forehead, drawing his fingers along my jawbone. Is it working?

I think maybe it is, I said. Before I could overthink it, I leaned in and kissed him. He tasted like mint and rum, and smelled even better.

Drawing back, he said, "Of course, I wouldn’t say no if you wanted to get in my pants."

The thought sent a flutter of panic through me.

It’s 2:00 in the morning. I should go home.

Or you could kiss me again, he said, his lips an inch from mine. I wouldn’t mind.

We kissed again, deeper this time, lost in each other. A tall, skinny man passing our booth for the second time said, Jesus, get a room.

When I could finally speak, I said, I would invite you to my place, but my roommate’s boyfriend is sleeping over tonight.

My place is only three blocks away, he said. I don’t think Vera would mind if you came over.

A chill gripped my heart. I had barely known him three hours, so I absolutely, positively was not going to ask who Vera was. Oh God. What if Vera was his ex? Nope. Not asking. I didn’t want to sound desperate or insecure. If he felt comfortable taking me home, shouldn’t that be enough? Was I strong enough to handle a strange co-habitation agreement with a possible ex-girlfriend? Maybe.

Unless he was living with his mother. That would be a deal-breaker.

Crossing my fingers behind my back, I asked, Vera?

My cat, he said, pulling me to my feet.

I was doing the walk of shame to my apartment when I realized I had forgotten my keys. I rang the doorbell and waited for Kim to let me inside. She stood in the doorway, her arms folded. Her hair resembled prime nesting material for small rodents.

Sorry I woke you up, I said. Go back to bed.

She checked the wall clock and yawned, blinking. Is it 8 o’clock? Oh my God! You slut! You were there all night!

I grinned, feeling the heat of a blush covering my face. No comment on the grounds that it will definitely incriminate me.

She playfully pushed my shoulder. C’mon, Jules, I want details!

I’m a trollop crawling home at all hours. Anyway, I never kiss and tell.

"Okay, I don’t want all the details, just…you know, the basics," she muttered, knuckling the sleep from her eyes.

I stifled a yawn. Later. I need to get some sleep.

Me, too, she said, widening the crack in the door to her room and jerking her head in that direction.

Kim’s boyfriend of three months, Luke Miller, lay sprawled on the bed, a hairy leg poked from under the sheets.

Looks like I wasn't the only one engaging in sexcapades last night, I said, shrugging out of my jacket and peeling my clothes off as I headed to the shower.

I wish! We drank like freshman last night. Prince Charming threw up in the taxi on the way home.

I covered my mouth, trying not to laugh. Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.

She grinned and let out a giggle, clasping a hand over her mouth and turning to make sure she hadn’t woken up Luke.

That’s not the worst part, she told me. I threw up in his shoe after we got home.

You’re just a couple of romantics, I said, stifling a smile.

Stepping forward to hug me, she said, I’m so glad you hooked up with—what’s his name? She waved a hand in the air. Help me out here.

You can’t remember the name of the guy you set me up with?

Nathan—Nathan Lord! she said, snapping her fingers.

"Where did you find him? Dates-R-Us?"

Moaning, she leaned against the doorjamb and put a hand to her head.

Jesus, it’s not like we’re besties. In my defense, I can’t even remember my mother’s name right now.

You set me up with a guy you barely know?

I met Nathan through my boss. He handles her investments. He dropped off some papers for her a few months ago and he seemed nice.

I really thought you knew the guy, I said, feeling my happy-glow dull a little.

Jules…you had a good time, right?

I did…

So don’t overthink it.

You’re right, I said, nodding.

A hand to her stomach, she said, Fill me in later, after I kill myself.

You got it, I promised, grinning. Now go throw up in that other shoe.

I watched her slowly crawl onto the bed and push at Luke who was now draped across the bed. After the third Hey, move over! with no response, she gave up and headed to the window seat, wrapped herself in the comforter, and curled herself into a ball.

Goodnight, I whispered, but she was already snoring.

I woke up around 2 pm, planning to go to the gym. The lack of sleep and the mild hangover, from one too many mojitos, made my limbs pleasantly heavy, seducing me to stay in bed until 4 pm. Dragging myself from the warm nest of blankets, I poured the ingredients for my grandmother’s hang-over cure—tomato juice, Tabasco sauce and a raw egg—in a blender, minus the shot of vodka. Cringing, I held my throbbing head, and watched the ingredients mix.

As a veteran of the celebrity machine, I’d spent many a tedious hour making small talk at mixers, and drinking too much. I was no stranger to a wicked hangover, but this one seemed palpably intense. It didn’t make a lot of sense. Sure, I had a couple of strong cocktails, but Nathan and I had stumbled to his fridge and drank iced tea, feeding each other cold cuts and cheese between romps. The food should have soaked up some of the alcohol.

I smiled in spite of my pounding head, remembering how sweetly Nathan had apologized for his nearly empty fridge.

This is sad, he'd said. I should have strawberries and champagne.

I need meat! I'd exclaimed.

He looked at me, sheepishly.

Let me rephrase that! I said. "I need protein. Rabbit food doesn’t give a girl the strength to keep up with you."

Giggling, we’d dashed back into his bedroom with a jug of tea and a plate of cheese, sliced ham, and crackers for reinforcement, feeding each other bites of food, and making love twice more once we were tucked back into bed.

I was never more than slightly tipsy when I went home with him. I was nearly sober by the time I crawled into my own bed. I’d never had a hangover like this, especially one that resolved and then returned, stronger than ever, within a day. Maybe I was coming down with something.

Unsnapping the blender pitcher from the base, I tipped it up, not bothering with a glass and guzzled the hangover remedy, wiped my hand on the back of my sleeve and kissed the idea of the gym goodbye. Shuffling back to my bed, I sank onto the mattress and pulled the comforter over my head, praying for death or recovery, whichever was the least painful.

As I drifted in and out of sleep, I thought about my one-night stand with Nathan. Not only was he exceptional in bed, he was so nice he almost made me forget my wretched breakup. I couldn’t wait to see him again, and I realized what that meant. I was finally over Colin.

My hangover was gone by Monday morning, but the exhaustion lingered, growing worse by the hour. It didn’t make sense. Everything had seemed fine Sunday evening. Well, everything except a teeny amount of bleeding around my gums when I brushed my teeth, but that happens to everyone sometimes, right? And, okay, maybe one tooth fell out when I tried to eat a bagel for breakfast, but I was a little phobic about the dentist. I was relentless with the whitening gel, but I usually scheduled my cleanings for as far apart as I could manage. It wasn’t like it was an important tooth, just one of the smaller molars on the side. It wouldn’t even show when I smiled, and maybe the dentist could put it back. Doctors were able to reattach fingers and arms. A tiny tooth should be a piece of cake compared to reattaching a limb.

After a few minutes of mild shock, I plucked the tooth out of the bagel, wrapped it in a tissue, and tucked it into a sandwich bag. I tossed the bagel in the garbage can.

There was also the matter of my breath. Over the course of a couple of days, it had gotten so bad that Kim’s yellow canary, Andy, had dropped to the bottom of his cage and fluttered his wings trying to escape the hot, dead funk that poured out of my mouth.

Losing a tooth and nearly killing the bird with my breath, or even the sudden craving for raw meat isn’t what cinched it for me. It was the feathers stuck to my mouth, epoxied there by Andy’s blood, right after I bit his little head off and sucked the contents out through the hole. I will never forget the crunching sound his little bones made as I gnawed and sucked out the marrow in his tiny bones. I know I should have been completely horrified that I just eaten my best friend’s bird, but all that registered in that moment was a vague sense of dissatisfaction. It was like poor Andy was just an appetizer and I needed a meal.

Something was really, really, wrong.

Kim’s dog, Gracie, had watched me eat Andy. Then she leapt from the bed, circling the room and growling at me, giving me a look of distrust as her little body shook with fear. She tucked herself into the corner of my bedroom and refused to budge. As I spit feathers from my mouth, I opened the door with my right hand and stuffed what was left of Andy’s carcass into my robe pocket with my left. I indulged in a little Lady Macbeth routine in a vain attempt to get the blood off my fingers, gave up and extended my hand to the shivering dog.

She growled and sniffed but would not be coaxed from the corner. With a sigh, I walked into the bathroom, grunting in surprise when I hit my shin on the bed. Then I turned and hit my shoulder on the doorjamb.

Shaking my head, I looked at my shoulder. I had been clumsy since I woke up Sunday morning. Huh. I guess that was another sign. I looked at my shin and my shoulder, and saw dark blue patches blooming under the grayish tint of my skin. When had I gotten all…gray? Didn’t bruises take longer than thirty-seconds to turn blue?

While I was inspecting my body, I heard Gracie dart from the corner of the room. Peering out, I watched as she did a funny my-nails-are-too-long mambo on the wood floor, skidded sideways, regained her balance, ran in place for a split second—clearly praying for traction—then whizzed out the door and down the hall. A thwapping sound confirmed that she had scooted out the doggie door, and if not for the fence, she would probably not have stopped until she hit the next county.

Moving like a marionette without a master, I had no hope of catching her. I peered out into the yard, watching with complete apathy as the dog dug furiously along the edge of the fence. Once she had an opening wide enough to wiggle through, she was gone. I should probably worry about that, but my thoughts were moving at a snail’s pace.

I peeled off my robe and looked at myself in the mirror. Before this all happened, I was described by a men’s magazine as a five-foot-six, creamy-skinned hottie with a foot of thick espresso-colored hair, dangerously curvy hips, a waist so small it would make a wasp jealous, and, according to a prominent late night talk show host, an impressive rack.

I have turned down two roles in adult movies, an offer to be a centerfold in a prominent men’s magazine, and offers by sugar daddies—wealthy older men—looking for a sugar baby. I turned down freakin’ Howard Stern, although that was a little harder. (I always liked Howard despite his shock jock persona.) I didn’t say no to all of those offers because I’m opposed to any of it. I believed that there was more to me than my body. That faith was now being sorely tested. A little voice echoed back. Maybe you’re mentally ill. I pushed it away. Mental illness wouldn’t explain the physical changes. I thought of the stigmata. The mind was powerful, but I wasn’t prone to extreme beliefs. If I was going to go crazy, wouldn’t that have happened right after Colin left? Why now?

I studied my body, taking in every inch. I was still the same height, but that was about all that was the same. My curves had been consumed by—I don’t even know what to call it—some sort of flesh-eating virus? No, that didn’t sound right. I didn’t have open sores. I just looked like a…corpse…or worse. My mind danced around the one word that I could barely think without wanting to laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Taking a deep breath, I walked to the mirror, stared my reflection in the eye and said it out loud just to prove that it was ridiculous.

You have come down with a bad case of…zombieism?

Was that even a word? The worst part was that it didn’t seem that ridiculous. In fact, it seemed to be a fair and accurate description of my current state.

Accurate or not, the thought was more than a little absurd. Zombies didn’t exist. They were manufactured creatures straight from Hollywood.