RUBY

Everything happens for a reason. I hate that saying, even if it’s true most of the time. It’s something people say to you when crap luck slaps you in the face. It’s not their crap luck, so it’s easy to throw out a useless, annoying saying in an attempt to make a person feel better. Here’s the truth: Telling someone everything happens for a reason doesn’t actually make them feel less crappy. In fact, it usually makes them feel worse.

Which is why I’m so glad I have a best friend like Amie. As soon as I stop crying—it takes a good twenty minutes to get myself under control. I might be pissed off, but I’m not angry enough that this doesn’t hurt—a lot—I call her and tell her what happened.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Amie rarely swears these days. Her anger makes me feel so much better.

“I need a new apartment. Like tomorrow.”

“Do you want to stay here until you do? I know there isn’t much space, but is it better than staying there? Why don’t you pack your things and we’ll get you out tomorrow.”

“What about Armstrong?”

“What about him?”

“What are you going to tell him? He’s going to ask why I’m staying with you.”

“He won’t know. He never comes here. My mattress isn’t soft enough and I don’t have much space. I’ll probably be at his place twice next week—I can even try for more, but he’s got this thing about having his space. At least you won’t have to sleep on the couch or an air mattress those nights. Do you want me to come get you tonight?”

“No. That’s not necessary. He’s not even in the country. And he won’t be back tonight, or at least for a couple of days, so there’s no point. I need to pack, anyway.”

“Okay. I have to work in the morning. Do you need me to take time off so I can help you?”

“I have a shift tomorrow night, but I have the day free. I can see about getting an Uber van or something.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds. “Oh! What about Bancroft’s truck? Are the keys there?”

“You’re a genius. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I bet I can get the people who work in this building to cart all my stuff down to the truck, too.”

“I’m sure you can, and you should.”

I’m so angry I don’t even think twice about using Bancroft’s truck without his permission.

I spend the rest of the afternoon packing. Mostly it’s me throwing stuff into suitcases and then crying when I can’t get them closed. I’m so stupid. I made this into something it wasn’t. I was convinced there was more between us, but obviously I was wrong. I still have to go to work, which sucks. It doesn’t matter how long I lie with cucumber slices over my eyes, they’re still red and puffy.

I guess Bancroft has turned out to be another Last-Name-First asshole. I should know better than to equate sex with feelings. I sleep like crap, and get up after just a few hours of fitful sleep. No matter, I need to get out of this place. I find Bancroft’s truck keys and I call the front desk guy to bring a trolley or something up so I can move my boxes out.

Ms. Blackwood comes out to see what all the noise is about. Precious is tucked under her arms. She snarls at me. It’s everything I can do not to snarl back.

“Oh, Renee, are you moving?” She looks past me, into the condo. I take a step back and close the door halfway since Francesca’s cage is in the living room.

I don’t correct her. She gets my name wrong every time, although she always manages to get the first letter right.

“I am. It was so nice living across the hall from you!” I say with fake enthusiasm, holding out my hand.

She accepts the handshake, although she appears a little uncertain about the contact, which is perfect. Once she disappears into her condo I flip her the bird.

It takes fifteen minutes for Stan—the front desk guy—to load all my boxes onto the trolley. While he takes them down and transfers them to the truck I check on Francesca. Except she’s not in her cage. I have a moment of panic, or several moments, as I search the condo for her. I find her tucked into Bancroft’s pillow.

I cry tears of relief that I didn’t manage to lose her. Of all the things I’m going to miss about living in Bancroft’s condo, apart from Bancroft, I’ll miss his ferret. Francesca, not the one in his pants. I cry while playing with her in his sheets. I know I’ll see her again before Bancroft returns—but I’m emotional and I’m going to miss her.

After he returns there’s no guarantee I’m ever going to see Franny again. It’s also sort of symbolic of losing Bane—who I never really had in the first place. I change Tiny’s water and feed her a cricket even though I did it two days ago. I’m a puffy-eyed mess by the time I’m ready to claim Bancroft’s truck.

Stan looks a little uneasy as I try to navigate the truck while still sniffling. Thankfully it has a backup camera with one of those beeper things that tells me when I’m getting too close to other objects. That seems to happen a lot in this beast. I manage to get out of the underground parking without hitting anything.

Driving a truck in the streets of New York is insane. I have no idea how Bancroft manages this thing. It’s huge. And the lanes are narrow. The nice thing about it is that if I want to change lanes and no one is letting me go I can just edge my way in and they really don’t have a choice but to let it happen. It helps that I don’t really care if the truck ends up with a ding.

I have a key to Amie’s apartment, so it’s not a big deal getting in once I arrive at her place. Carting all my stuff up to the twelfth floor is a bit of a pain in my ass since it takes five trips, plus my luggage. I line my pitiful pile of boxes against the only available wall. Once I’m done, I park the truck in the underground garage, luckily Amie’s building has one as well, and get a pass for it. I use my sex money from Bane to pay for that. I’m not driving it back today. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. I can’t imagine Bancroft will be back by then.

By the time I’m done I’m sweaty and hungry. I check Amie’s fridge for food. I’m sorely disappointed. Her food selection is minimal. There’s lettuce, and some fruit, but I’m used to living with a former rugby player who loves his carbs and meat. Plus I’m working a very active job these days. I need the calories to maintain the booty I’m currently rocking.

Amie lives on the fringe of the theater district, much like Bancroft, so her apartment isn’t all that far away. It’s a fabulous area, and this apartment costs a mint. But she makes great money where she works, so it’s affordable for her. Unless I manage to snag a prime role in a Broadway production, there’s no damn way I’ll ever be able to afford something like this. And doesn’t that just piss me off all over again.

I grab my purse and head to the street. It’s early afternoon, and I’m starving. I think I might actually be hangry at this point. I check my phone as I’m walking down the street. I have messages from Amie, but nothing from Bancroft. He must be in London by now. That I haven’t heard from him is another kick in the vagina.

I need comfort food. Something greasy and unhealthy. I continue down the street, determined to find something that doesn’t require me to sit down. I just want food and then I want to go back to Amie’s apartment, shower, and maybe catch a nap before I have to head to work.

As I’m passing one of the small, eclectic theaters on the side streets, I notice a poster for open auditions plastered to the door. It’s for today. I check the time. And right now.

Now here is one of those instances in which the “everything happens for a reason” adage is actually reasonable and welcome. I abandon the quest for food. It’s an audition for a play I’ve never heard of. Not that it matters. As long as I can read the script and learn the lines in the time they give me, it’s worth a shot. I don’t have any food in my stomach, so it’s not like I’m going to vomit all over the director. The worst that can happen is not getting a callback.

I enter the theater. It’s gorgeous inside, and high ceilings and ornately carved pillars lead my eye to a folding table. Behind it sits a woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and bloodred lipstick.

I put on my brightest, friendliest smile. “There are open auditions here today?”

Her eyes widen when she sees me. “There are,” she says with some hesitation.

I look down at my outfit. I’m a bit of a mess. My shirt is smudged with dirt and my jeans have holes in them. I’m far from put together. Oh well, I’m here now. “Okay. Great. I’d like to audition then.”

She gives me a patronizing smile and slides a form over. “Fill this out, please.”

I scribble my way through the basic paperwork and pass it back, exchanging it for a script. “They’ll call you in shortly. You’re the last audition before they break for the afternoon.”

“Thank you.” Well, that’s fortunate. I follow her directions to the theater, scanning the script.

The scene they’ve chosen is one with high emotion. The female lead is angry, frustrated, and explosive. I’m feeling all of these things. If nothing else, auditioning for this role will be cathartic.

I cry real tears during my audition. Ones born of true frustration, for my own predicament, for the role I want. I may take it a touch too far into melodrama, but it’s definitely therapeutic.

I leave the theater feeling less angry and really damn hungry. I find a pizza place and scarf down two slices. Then I return to my new, temporary home, shower, and get ready for work.

Tomorrow I need to find an apartment. I won’t put Amie out like this for longer than I have to. More than anything, I just want to be able to manage life on my own, without having to rely on anyone else for support—at least the financial kind. While this situation sucks, at least my current job will afford me money for rent and the basics. I don’t need or want luxury if it comes with this kind of emotional price tag.

Work feels different tonight. I keep expecting to see Bancroft standing at the back of the club, looking angry. But he’s not, because he’s in another country. As angry as I am, I’m also sad. He’d become a friend. Someone who didn’t judge me and accepted me for who I was.

In the morning I’m disappointed all over again by the lack of communication from him. I guess that tells me clearly where we stand.

I drive his truck back to his condo and allow the valet to park it. I’m surprised I’ve managed to return it with no damage, apart from the latte I spilled in the center console. I didn’t try very hard to clean it up. I hope by the time he gets back it smells like sour milk in there. It’s vindictive, but I’m not feeling all that nice on account of his hypocrisy.

I spend an hour playing with Francesca and make sure Tiny is okay—she won’t require feeding until the weekend and I’m assuming Bancroft will be home by then. I hope so. Coming back here just hurts. Leaving Francesca is its own kind of painful.

I rub her belly as she rolls around on the floor. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

She curls around my hand and nips at my fingers, then she climbs into my lap, sticking her head under my shirt. Stretching up on her hind legs her head pops out of the neck of my top, between my boobs. I laugh, and then start to cry.

She butts my chin with her nose and rubs her little face on my neck. I cuddle with her, letting my ridiculous tears fall until she gets squirmy and tries to wriggle out of my hold. I never expected to become so attached to her, or Tiny, or Bancroft.

I need a distraction, so my mission for the rest of the day becomes apartment hunting. I don’t imagine it’s going to be easy to find something reasonably priced and available immediately. I don’t want to go back to a diet that consists primarily of ramen noodles, but I will if it means being able to pursue this dream I’m not willing to let die.

I’m almost back to Amie’s apartment when I get a call from an unfamiliar number. It’s local, so it can’t be Bancroft. I answer on the third ring.

“Hello, may I please speak with Ruby Scott?”

It’s an unfamiliar male voice. Oh God. I hope it’s not a collection agency. I’ve been really good about paying down my loans and credit card. “That’s me.”

“This is Jack Russell. You auditioned for me yesterday.”

My heart jumps up in my throat. I cross my fingers. “Yes. Yes I did.”

“We were all very impressed with your audition.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Unfortunately, the role you’ve auditioned for has been filled,” he says.

Of course it has. Because I have terrible luck. Because I suck. Because I can’t do this on my own. Because I’m destined to be a corporate drone, dealing in penis-hardening stimulants for the rest of my life. Or a prison bitch for murdering my whore-mother when I’m forced to work with her, because that’s the direction my life is going in.

I tune back in just in time to hear, “—today to audition for another role.”

“I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

“It’s a slightly more challenging role, but your paperwork indicates you have vocal background. If you’re interested, we’d like you to come back and audition this afternoon.”

“I can do that. Definitely. I’m interested. What time would you like me to be there?”

“Can you make two o’clock? We have an opening at that time.”

“I’ll be there. Is it at the same theater?”

“Actually, no, it’s down the street. Not too far away.” I scribbled down the address and realize he’s talking about the New World Stages on West Fiftieth. This is a big deal. Not Broadway big, but Off-Broadway significant. It’s a huge step in the right direction. Getting this role, or any role in this production would be amazing for my career.

I call Amie so I have someone to be excited with, but it goes to voice mail. A pang of sadness hits me when I see Bancroft’s number not far down the list of recent calls. If this had been a few days ago, he would’ve been the first person I called. Possibly ahead of Amie. That tells me, in a way I didn’t expect, just how attached to him I’ve become. I shake off the sadness and rush back to Amie’s to prepare for my audition.

This time I’m put together and organized. I show up half an hour early, expecting it will give me some time to review the script—I didn’t even think to ask what the play or the part was, I was so excited.

Ten minutes after I arrive they call me in, so I barely have enough time to look over the script or learn the song I’m supposed to sing. I don’t even have a chance to get nervous.

And maybe that’s exactly why I nail it. It’s going to be such a cool production and the acoustics in this theater are outrageous. Once again I’m riding a high as I head back out into the warmth and the sunshine. As I’m passing the little theater where I auditioned yesterday, I notice a flyer in warning-sign-yellow. It’s impossible to miss. And it says FOR RENT.

I have no idea how long it’s been there, but with my current string of luck, I call the number.

I get voice mail, so I leave a message and take a picture of the address. I don’t think it’s terribly far from here. It would be amazing if I managed to find a place within walking distance, or a short subway ride, of my best friend. For as long as she’s still living in her apartment, anyway.

I need to be at the club around six and it’s already approaching four, so I get my gear together and grab something to eat. I need to work a trip to the market into my day. Amie’s lettuce selection isn’t all that inspiring, or filling.

I’m considering leaving for the club early so I don’t have to sit around and think about how a few days ago I could’ve shared my excitement with Bancroft, and now I can’t. I can’t exactly share it with the girls at the club either.

If I get this role, I’ll have to quit or at least cut back my shifts. Quitting is more likely. And that makes me sad, because as scandalous as my job is, it’s been a freeing experience. More than that, it’s actually fun—aside from the horrible blisters and the calf cramps. Those I won’t miss.

But this role would come with a very decent paycheck. One I can live off of. And the production is anticipated to be long running. This is what I’ve worked so hard for. It’s exactly what I want. I try not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard.

Just as I’m shoving my feet into my shoes the phone rings. I recognize it as the number from the rental advertisement. I fully expect the person to sound like Darth Vader, or that the ad is old and the apartment is rented, but I’m shocked to discover it’s not. It’s a sublet, and it’s only available for two months.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I can handle something short term. It will buy me time to find something permanent. I set up an appointment to see the place tomorrow. For all I know it’s located in the basement of a dungeon somewhere.

The next day I take the short subway ride to check out the apartment. It’s a beautiful, tiny four-hundred-square-foot apartment, built for function. A sliding panel bisects the room, giving the illusion of a separate space for the bedroom, which boasts a murphy bed.

The entire apartment would fit into my bedroom at Bancroft’s. Which is not my bedroom anymore. It never really was. Like this place will be, it was temporary. A stopover until I managed to pull my life back together.

“I know it’s small,” Belinda says apologetically, as if it’s her fault the apartment doesn’t have more square footage.

“That’s okay. It’s just me anyway. What would the rent be for this?” I’m afraid of the number she’s going to throw out. I have serious doubts about being able to afford this place.

“I’m asking for eighteen hundred a month, with a five-hundred-dollar deposit that you’ll get back as long as everything is in the same condition when I return.”

I stare at her, certain she can’t be serious. I’ve seen what these studio apartments go for. Living around here would not be possible for me with my current income, so this is a steal.

It’s really a no-brainer. I can stay here for the next two months, get myself sorted out, and then find something more permanent.