The Love Wager by Lynn Painter

            Hallie was stuffed and didn’t particularly care for banana bread at the moment, but she didn’t want to disappoint Ruthie, either. Especially when she was about to disappoint her by telling her she wanted to move out. “No butter, please.”

            Ruthie literally ran over to the galley kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door. She yelled, “You know how I feel about butter, so I’m slathering this whole motherfucking loaf—aside from your slices—with all the Country Crock the law will allow.”

            Hallie dropped her purse on the floor and slid out of her shoes. “I never doubted that you would.”

            Ruthie Kimball was an absolutely ridiculous person. She was the sister of one of Hallie’s coworkers at the jewelry store, which was how they came to be roommates, and Hallie had never met anyone in her entire life who was so shockingly unpredictable. She genuinely had no idea—ever—what Ruthie was going to do, say, or think.

            Ruthie drove a motorcycle year-round, whether it was sunny or snowing. If the temps were subzero, Ruthie bundled up in her puffy coat before climbing on her “hog” and proceeding to ride around town as if it were normal to have icicles forming underneath your nose.

            And yes, she actually referred to it as her hog.

            Incessantly.

            Ruthie loved baking but hated cooking. She had piercings everywhere, but cried like a baby if she needed to get a shot. She took care of Hallie like an older sister, baking for her and ironing her clothes if she left them in the dryer for too long, but she scream-fought with her actual sister on a regular basis, shouting things into the phone like “I’d love to run you over with my hog but your stupid fucking ass would probably fuck up my suspension.”

            Before throwing the phone off the balcony.

            Somehow the phone was never broken when she retrieved it. Soft grass, Hallie supposed.

            Ruthie was thin, of average height, and kept her head completely shaved because she found hair to be “so damn dumb.” She had huge blue eyes and a pixie face—like Ariel from The Little Mermaid—and she belonged to a super-secret fighting club that left her bruised more often than not.

            Last year, Hallie had briefly worried that someone was hurting Ruthie and the club was an excuse, but when she finally got the nerve to broach the subject, Ruthie broke down in tears because she was so touched by Hallie’s concern.

            And then she showed Hallie about a hundred pics of bruised, bloody women teeing off on each other in what looked to be a basement.

            “Here it is.” Ruthie sprinted out of the kitchen and shoved a plate into Hallie’s hands. “My grandma’s recipe, but with a little Ruthie magic.”

            “You know I can’t do edibles,” Hallie said, staring down at the hunk of bread. “They do random testing at my day job.”

            “Drug-free, I promise. The magic is actually the addition of a drop of vinegar.”

            Hallie sniffed the bread before taking a bite. “Mmmm,” she moaned, meaning it. “That is so good!”

            “Yay!” Ruthie turned a cartwheel, knocking over the floor lamp. Once she had it back up, she said, “Listen, I gotta go take a nap. I met this girl named Bawnda who does synchronized swimming, and she said she’ll teach me if I don’t mind working overnights.”

            “So . . . this is a job?”

            “Did you not listen to me?” Ruthie smiled and shook her head, like Hallie was the ridiculous one. “I will be swimming in a synchronized fashion overnight tonight—not working—so I must sleep now. Night-night, Hallie baba.”

            “G’night,” Hallie said, glancing at the microwave in the kitchen that showed it was seven p.m.

            So much for discussing moving.



* * *



            • • •

            Chuck: So? How goes it?

            Hallie picked up her glass and finished the last swallow of Riesling and responded with so far so good. She’d been sitting in bed with her phone since eight, just scrolling through available men. She’d heard the jokes about dudes being terrible at making good profiles, and it was actually not a lie. If what she’d looked at so far was indicative of the male species as a whole, there was a strong belief amongst them that a picture of a man with a fish was the pinnacle of profile photos.