RUBY

I eat an entire Listerine PocketPak on the subway ride home to kill any lingering germs in my mouth from Awesome Kisser. I’m annoyed by the whole thing, but at least he apologized and seemed sincere about the accidental tongue invasion. Too bad the hotness of the memory is marred by raging Brittany and the hack in the face.

After getting home, I rinse with mouthwash, down six vitamin C capsules and some anti-flu holistic stuff, and then I go ahead and make myself my customary before-bed, pre-audition nighttime drink of hot honey-lemon water, and pray I’ve done a good enough job of ridding myself of cough germs.

I climb into bed, note my sheets lack a fresh scent, question when I last washed them, then I set my alarm and close my eyes. Behind my lids appears the hottie—whose name is apparently Banny, or maybe I misheard and it’s Danny. It’s not really a hot guy name. I’m going to stick with Awesome Kisser.

Now that I’m past the shock-and-awe factor I can fully appreciate that man’s hotness in the shouty caps sense of the word. It’s unfortunate he dates vapid, self-absorbed model-y types and not starving artists. I have a feeling “date” isn’t the appropriate word anyway. It’s also unfortunate that he has poor coughing manners.

I consider that he was likely a guest at the engagement party and he very well may be a guest at the wedding as well. If I’m still dateless by then he could make an excellent potential dance partner, depending of course on how tight he is with Armstrong. If they’re close friends I don’t think it’s advisable to get involved in any semi-unclothed dancing outside of the wedding celebrations, no matter how hot he is. I don’t want to run the risk of encountering him again should things not go as well as one hopes.

Eventually I stop fantasizing about what’s under his suit and pass out.

* * *

I’m about to find out exactly what’s in Awesome Kisser’s designer pants when a repetitive, annoying sound distracts me. I pause just before I smooth a hand over the amazingly prominent bulge while he tilts my head back, his soft lips brushing mine, his hot tongue sweeping . . .

The wisps of the dream fade and I crack a lid. The fantasy breaks with the obnoxious sunlight screaming its wake-up call, along with my stupid phone. Sometimes I’m slutty in my dreams.

I reach for the phone, remembering that Amie promised me a morning call, just in case I messed up my alarm, which has happened in the past. I was on the ball last night, though. I set three alarms, all within five minutes of each other so I wouldn’t have an opportunity to fall back asleep.

“Rise and shine, Ruby! I’m your wake-up call!” How she manages to sound so damn chipper at seven-thirty in the morning after her engagement party is beyond me.

A seal-like bark comes out when I attempt to grumble hello and tell her off for interrupting my dream.

“Ruby? Are you there?”

I make a second attempt at speaking but all I manage is another bark.

“Do you have a bad connection? I told you not to go with the cheap provider. You know how terrible the reception is.”

I clear my throat and immediately regret it, as it feels like knives are traveling up my esophagus.

“Ruby?” Amie asks again and then sighs. “I’m hanging up and trying again.”

Once the line goes dead I immediately hit the video call. Amie picks up right away. She’s wearing a white robe with her wavy hair pulled up into a ponytail, looking as fresh as baked bread out of the oven. I on the other hand, look like yesterday’s garbage based on the small image in the corner of my phone.

“Oh my God. Are you okay?”

I motion to my throat and shake my head. I give speaking another shot, just in case my inability to make more than random, audible sounds is a result of waking up. I usually don’t have to use words until after my morning coffee. All I get is another one of those squeaky moans and more sharp pain in my throat.

Amie sucks in a gasp and slaps her hand over her mouth. “You have no voice!”

I nod.

“How are you going to audition?”

The final dregs of sleep slip away. I mouth oh God. A mime is the only part I can audition for with no voice, or one of the dancer roles with no lines. They don’t make nearly as much money as central, or even secondary character, roles—which is what I’m hoping to score. The pay scale for that is far higher than for a lineless role. It definitely won’t cover the basics, like rent and food, let alone the minimum payments on my credit card. I’ve been banking on this audition to get me out of the hole I’ve dug for myself over the past few weeks.

The phone conversation is pointless since Amie can’t read lips and I can’t respond. She tells me she’s coming over. I try to tell her not to bother, but again, with the lack of words it’s impossible to convey. I wait until she hangs up and text her to tell her it’s not necessary. Besides, this thing I have is clearly contagious since I must’ve gotten it from Awesome Kisser, and I don’t want to pass it on to her. Damn Awesome Kisser—ruining the already questionable state of my life.

I roll out of bed, the full-body ache hitting me with the movement. I must be dying. And I’m not just being dramatic. Every cell in my body hurts. I drag myself to the kitchen and fill the kettle. Maybe a lemon-honey hot water toddy will help restore my voice. Based on my recent unlucky streak, I have my doubts.

I shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and root around in the medicine cabinet for some decent drugs. All I have is regular-strength Tylenol, so it’ll have to do. I climb into the shower without checking the temperature first—it takes forever to heat up and then fluctuates between lukewarm and scalding. I step under the spray during a scalding phase and huddle in the corner until it’s bearable.

I’d like to say the shower helps me feel better. It does not. The warm water also does little to help my voice. Although I’m past just squeaking to barely audible one-word phrases, such as “ow.” I’m praying to the voice-miracle gods that the honey-lemon combo will further improve my ability to speak.

Once out of the shower I doctor up my water, adding extra lemon and honey. Not only do I burn the crap out of my tongue, it feels like serrated blades coated in acid sliding down my throat. Still, I get dressed in basic black tights and a black tank with a loose, gauzy gray shirt over top. I dry my hair and put on makeup in hopes that appearing put together will make it so. I have to double up on powder when the effort to prepare my face causes me to sweat.

I take a second hot lemon-honey toddy with me on the subway and arrive for my audition half an hour early. Not that my promptness matters. I’m still unable to speak above a whisper. My despair balloons like a marshmallow in the microwave at the mass of people performing voice warm-up exercises around me.

I make an attempt to do the same, but the hoarse, croaklike sound is drowned out by the crystal clear voice of the perfectly gorgeous woman standing next to me. As I listen to the sound of a thousand soaring angels spew out of her mouth, I shiver with what I fear is the beginning of a fever. Sweat breaks out across the back of my neck and travels down my spine, along with a violent shiver. As if today could be any worse than it already is, my stomach does this weird, knotting thing.

“Ruby Scott.”

I glance at the director, who’s thankfully still looking fresh, and not beaten down by hundreds of craptastic auditions. Those are yet to come. I shoulder my bag and follow him to the theater.

“You’re auditioning for the role of Emma today, correct?” He doesn’t give me a chance to confirm. “I’d like you to start with the song at the beginning of act two.”

“Okay,” I croak feebly, cringing at the raspy sound. At least I can speak, even if I sound like a prepubescent boy with his nuts caught in his zipper.

The director looks up from his clipboard, his frown an omen.

“I seem to have lost my voice.” He has to strain to hear me.

He heaves a frustrated sigh. “You can’t audition if you don’t have a voice.”

“I didn’t want to miss it. Maybe I could audition for a dancer part?” Fewer words are better.

He purses his lips. “Auditions for dancer roles aren’t until later in the week.”

“I understand, but I’m here and if you can’t hear me sing, at least you could see me dance?” I fight the gag reflex as another wave of nausea hits me.

He sighs and relents, gesturing to the stage. I thank him, then drop my bag at the edge of the stage and get into first position. My brain is foggy and my body aches horribly, but I can’t pass up this opportunity for a modest, yet steady income for a few months. I can’t afford to rack up additional credit card debt, and I don’t want to ask my father for more money, because that will make him aware of how much of a struggle this is. Then he’ll make his case for me to come work for him, as is his master plan. I know I can do this.

The music cues up, and as I start to move my stomach does that rolling-heave thing again. There isn’t any food in it, but all of a sudden the honey-lemon water I consumed this morning decides to stage a revolt. I’m in the middle of a spin—not the best idea when nauseous—and the next wave hits me; violent and unrelenting.

I attempt to keep my mouth closed, but the intensity of the spasm forces it open. I spray the stage with partially digested honey-lemon water, and what appears to be last night’s shrimp tarts and mushroom canapé appetizer dinner—in an Exorcist-like dramatic flair.

And thus ends my audition.

* * *

It appears I should’ve come back later in the week for the dancer role auditions. No amount of apologizing can make up for my spray vomit. It doesn’t help that I’ve managed to hit the director with my impressive reach. I almost slip on my own puke spray in my haste to find the nearest bathroom, because a second wave is coming. I manage to make it to the hall, and a potted plant, before it hits. By round three I’m in the bathroom. Sadly, it’s a public stall, and based on the odor, the cleanliness is highly questionable. I wonder if it’s reflective of the success of this particular theater’s productions.

I spend a good hour in there, moaning and crying until all I can do is dry heave.

The worst part is that in my rush to find a bathroom to destroy, I forgot my purse in the theater. I’ll have to wait for a break in the auditions before I can sneak back in and retrieve it.

Thankfully, it’s still at the edge of the stage, so I creep in, grab it, and haul ass—which is really a very slow and uncoordinated hobble-run—before the director has a chance to see me again, or I him.

The subway ride home is perilous. People keep their distance, likely because I have the cold sweats and smell awful.

Once home, I spend an uncountable number of hours on the bathroom floor, curled up with a towel as a blanket and a roll of cheap, rough toilet paper as a pillow.

A knock on my door the following morning—I only know it’s morning based on the light pouring through my bathroom window—is the reason I pry myself away from my makeshift tile-floor bed.

My body hurts, a lot. So does my head and every other part of me. I’m still dressed in my audition clothes. I smell like day-old vomit. Based on the stains on my gray shirt, I didn’t have the best aim yesterday. I rinse my mouth with water, and then mouthwash, but it burns, so I spit it out after a quick swish.

I shuffle to the door and check the peephole before I open it. Occasionally solicitors manage to get into the building. I have no interest in someone trying to sway my political leaning or in adopting a new religion today. Although with the way I look I have my doubts anyone would want me to join their organization.

It’s not a solicitor, it’s Amie. She never stops by unannounced. I’ve left the chain lock off, apparently unconcerned for my own safety, so I flip the deadbolt and open it.

“Ruby Aster Scott, what is the meaning of this!” She holds a piece of paper in front of my face, too close for me to read.

She drops her hand before I have a chance to take it from her. Also, my reflexes are slow.

Her angry face becomes a shocked one. “Oh my God! What happened to you?” She pushes her way inside, almost knocking me over. Although I’m pretty unsteady on my feet, so I can’t blame it completely on her.

Amie covers her mouth with her sleeve. “What’s the smell? Why haven’t you answered my calls? I was going to call the police!”

“I think I have the flu,” I croak. I have more of a voice today than I did yesterday. Sort of.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the past twenty-four hours. You can’t do that to me. Really? What is that smell?”

“It’s probably me.”

She drops her arm and sniffs. Her nose wrinkles. “You need a shower. Or a bath.” She surveys my apartment and her frown deepens.

I’m admittedly not the best housekeeper. Until a few months ago, I had someone come in every other week to keep it manageable for me. When my father threatened to cut off his financial assistance a few months ago I cut back on unnecessary expenses, which included Ursula. But, I’ll blame the current disorder on my illness.

Amie’s expensive heels click across the floor as she heads for the bathroom. She gags her displeasure at the smell in there, which I assume is a more concentrated version of me.

A pair of rubber gloves, some bathroom cleaner, a lot of complaining, and fifteen minutes of vigorous scrubbing, and my bathroom no longer smells like the Vomitron. Amie runs a bath in my freshly cleaned tub, pushes me inside, and closes the door.

“Don’t come out for at least twenty minutes,” she yells from the other side.

I’ve been friends with Amie since freshman year in prep school. We moved to NYC together five years ago for college. Of the two of us, she’s definitely the more successful. Although there is a big difference between a dual degree in business management and public relations and one in theater.

In the two years since we’ve graduated she’s managed to turn her final internship at one of the most popular fashion magazines into a full-time job and she’s already been promoted once. On top of Amie’s fabulous job with its excellent paycheck, Amie has also managed to meet the man of her dreams—at least that’s what she claims—while I routinely manage a handful of dates before I tap out, or until they do when I don’t put out. Or I’m kissed by germ-infested strangers with an angry date. I wonder if this is karma’s way of trying to tell me something. And if so, what exactly is the message? Don’t use the bathroom? Don’t suck on lollipops? Be sluttier?

I must fall asleep in the tub, because I startle at the knock on the door. “Ruby? It’s been more than half an hour. Are you still alive?”

“I’ll be out in five!” I call in my broken, craggy voice.

The water has cooled and I shiver as I rush through washing my hair and my body. I feel a lot more human and a lot less barfy after I’m clean. Exiting the bathroom I find Amie has tidied my apartment.

The garbage and dirty dishes that were stacked in the sink and on the counter have either been thrown out or washed. My sheets have been changed, and the pile of clothes on the floor is now crammed into my laundry basket.

“You didn’t have to clean my apartment.”

“Well you sure don’t seem capable of it. You look like hell. I’m taking it the audition didn’t go well.”

“Not unless I was trying out for a part in The Exorcist.” I flop down on my bed, the energy it’s taken to bathe requires me to be prone again.

“What do you mean? What happened?” She hands me a steaming mug with a slice of lemon in it. I set it on the nightstand, unsure if I can stomach the last thing I hurled.

I give her the abridged version of the events, including the worst parts, like the projectile vomiting.

“Oh lord.”

“Yeah. I don’t think I’ll be getting another audition with that director unless I officially change my name.”

“Do you think it was food poisoning? Oh God. Is this my fault?” She claps one hand over her mouth in horror and grips the arm of the chair with the other.

The well-worn chair is one of the few items in this apartment I actually own. I’ve had it since freshman year of college. I bought it from a thrift store in a show of rebellion against my father, who disapproved fully of my plan to pursue a career in theater. He still footed the bill for what my scholarships didn’t cover in tuition. And he dropped money in my bank account that I obviously used along the way—just not for furniture.

“It’s not food poisoning. Some random guy mistook me for someone else and jammed his tongue down my throat when I was leaving the party. Then he coughed in my face and his date accused me of being a slut.”

“Pardon?” She drops her hand and gives me a disbelieving look.

I can understand why it sounds crazy—and realistically, the whole situation definitely is. Again, I have to wonder if karma is responsible for this. I explain the entire thing from the beginning.

“So this is my fault.”

“How are you responsible for some random guy mistaking me for his date in a semi-dark hallway?”

“They were probably my guests.”

“It’s still not your fault.” I close my eyes for a few seconds and consider whether or not I can tolerate food yet. The thought of chewing exhausts me.

After a long pause Amie asks, “When was the last time you asked your dad for money?”

It’s an odd lead-in question considering my current state. “Not in a while. Why?” Amie knows how much it burns my ass that I’m still reliant on him at all. For the past five years he’s been taking care of my rent, and some of my other expenses. When he threatened to cut me off a while back I opened another account, including an additional credit card and a small line of credit.

My plan was to be able to put away some money on my own and not use his so I could show him, once and for all, that I’m capable of surviving without his bank account. Unfortunately, with the recent lack of paychecks, I’ve had to use my credit card more than I’d like. And my line of credit.

“Are you by chance planning to move, but forgot to tell me?”

“If I was moving out of this craphole you’d be the first person I’d tell.” I have no idea why she’s asking me this.

“I was afraid you’d say that.” Amie sighs and pushes up, crossing over to my desk—which she didn’t bother to clean—and picks up a piece of paper. I live in a studio apartment that’s about 350 square feet so it doesn’t take much for her to retrieve it. “I hate to bring this up right now, unfortunately, it’s kind of a big issue that needs to be managed.”

Huge, block letters spell out LEASE TERMINATION NOTICE at the top of the page, followed by a bunch of legal jargon outlining the parameters of my lease agreement and the date by which I have to be out of my apartment, which is five days from now.

I read the blah-blah-blah between the TERMINATION and the date of my lease’s expiry. The last three checks have bounced.

“This doesn’t make any sense.” My father’s new secretary—the one he’s not married to—puts money in that account every month to cover the rent.

“Maybe you should call your dad.”

I drop down on the edge of the mattress. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. “I’m going to call his secretary.” I pull up my contact list and scroll down to Yvette. She’s only been working for my father for the past six months or so. I preferred his previous secretary, unfortunately I have a feeling my stepmother may not have appreciated her youth or her bubbly personality. Yvette is significantly older.

Yvette answers on the third ring. “Scott Pharmaceuticals, Yvette speaking, please hold.”

“Hi, Yve—” I’m cut off by the elevator music, followed by an advertisement for my father’s penis drugs. I roll my eyes and put my phone on speaker while I wait.

Five minutes later she finally clicks back over. “Thank you for holding. Yvette speaking, how may I help you today?”

“Hi, Yvette, it’s Ruby.”

“Hello. How may I direct your call, Ruby?”

Amie and I exchange a look.

“It’s Harrison’s daughter.”

“Oh! Ruby, of course. How silly of me. Would you like to speak with Harrison? I believe he may be in a meeting, however you can leave a voice mail for him and I’m sure he’ll return your call as soon as he can.”

“Actually, I think you may be able to help me. I’ve just received a notice regarding the termination of the lease on my apartment. Apparently the last three checks have bounced. Do you happen to know if there’s been an accounting error?” I clench my fists to avoid chewing on my fingernails.

“Oh, hmm. Let me have a look,” she says in her high-pitched, lilting voice.

“Thanks so much, Yvette.”

“Of course. It’s no trouble.” Clicking on the other end of the line tells me she looking at my financial files. “Oh, yes! Now I remember! Your father stopped direct deposits to this account about three months ago.”

“Why would he do that without telling me?”

“I sent you an email from him with the details. Let me just bring it up.” There’s more clicking on her end of the line. “Ah! I found it. Oh. Oh, no. It appears it’s still in draft form. I’ll just send it now. Bloop! There you go! Would you like me to read it to you?”

My phone pings with the email alert. “It’s fine. I can open it now.”

“I’ll just wait while you read it, then.” She hums pleasantly while I open the email and scroll. The roll in my stomach grows progressively worse as I absorb the contents. My father stopped his financial assistance three months ago and had his incompetent secretary send me an email notification. Apparently it was up to me to renew my lease and continue the payments. In case I’ve forgotten his plan, he ends the email with a note that a job would be available should I need to return to Rhode Island. And my whore-mother is looking forward to working with me.

Once my father married whore-mother, he moved her to another department—because God forbid there was a conflict of interest happening. Not only is her paygrade exceptionally higher than before, she was also given a sweet promotion which means my father wants me to work under her. I scrub a palm over my face. I’m not sure if I feel more like crying or vomiting again. It’s a real toss-up.

I must groan, or make some kind of noise, because Yvette speaks again. If her chipper voice had a face I’d want to punch it. “I apologize for the delay in communication.”

“It would’ve been good to have this information months ago.” Not that it would’ve helped that much. The rent still would’ve been a stretch to pay, let alone affording anything beyond the ramen noodles I’ve been eating for the past three weeks. I could’ve started my new meal plan that much sooner, I suppose.

“Would you like me to put you through to your father? I’m not sure when his meeting will be done, but you can leave him a message, or I can take one down and give it to him as soon as he comes available.” She sounds nervous now.

Talking to my father isn’t going to solve this problem. It’s likely only going to make things worse. “No. No, thank you Yvette. I need to go. Thank you for your time.” I end the call before she can say anything else.

Amie’s staring at me with wide eyes and her mouth agape. “Why aren’t you going to talk to your father? He can fix this.”

“I need to think.” I rub my temples. “I have to call my landlord.” So I do. Not that it helps. Turns out my apartment is already rented and I still owe three months of overdue rent. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t even notice I’d missed it. I imagine it’s my father who would’ve gotten the notification instead of me, because he’s the one who’s been paying the rent.

“You have to call your dad and ask him to fix this.”

“He can’t fix this now.”

“He can at least help you out with the rent.”

“And then what? I’m still not going to have a place to live.”

About six months ago, just after I scored my last role, my father and I had had a heated conversation about my career path. He’s made his disapproval clear, but he tolerated my choices because of my mother’s influence, and her guilt trip. His money still came with a price tag, and in this case it was shame. He’d said I’d finished my program, so I should be employable. If I couldn’t manage on my own, I’d be coming home to work for him.

I’ve heard that lecture so many times I can recite it in my sleep. Until now I thought he was blowing smoke up my rear end. It was after that conversation that I opened my own bank account, secured my own Visa, and the small line of credit. When my paycheck stopped coming in, I opted to raise my credit limit by a few thousand dollars instead of going to him.

If I call him now, I’ll have to admit defeat. And I feel as though he may be setting me up for this to happen. It’s as if he wants me to fail. If he finds out what’s happened, and how I have no other options, he’ll definitely send someone for me. Well, he might not send someone. He’s more likely to put me on a plane because driving that far isn’t on his priority list.

Home is not where I want to be. Home is Rhode Island. Home means I’ve failed. Home means my dream is dead and my dad was right all along: I’m not good enough for a career on Broadway. Or Off-Broadway. Or anywhere near Broadway.

Admitting failure isn’t the worst part. Going home means working for my father’s pharmaceutical empire where he deals in penis-hardening drugs. He’ll turn me into a corporate drone. I’ll have to sit behind a desk and type letters and stamp things and make sure meetings are scheduled in the right rooms. All my creativity will end up in the shredder bin, along with my dignity.

I know there are people out there struggling for a job, any job, and I should be grateful. And while the idea of working at my father’s company is not my idea of fun, it’s not the end of the world. Working under his new wife would be it’s own special kind of hell. I completely disagree with my father that it would be a good way for us to get to know each other and bond. I told him it’s a good way for me to end up in prison for murder. He did not appreciate my humor.

“He’s the reason you don’t have a place to live, you don’t think he’ll feel bad and try and make it right?”

“You heard my landlord, the place is already rented. You know as well as I do he’s been waiting for this to happen. He wants me to fail.”

“He doesn’t want you to fail.” I give her a look and she sighs again. “What about your line of credit? Can you pay off some of the rent with that?”

I pull up my account details on my phone. Even if I could raise it by a few more thousand, I can’t cover three missed months. I shake my head.

“What about a cash advance on your credit card?”

“There’s not a lot of room.” I have maybe three hundred dollars left before I hit my max. It’s a low max, but adding to my credit card debt seems like a bad idea, especially considering my current circumstances.

“Oh God.”

“Yeah.”

“I could lend you—”

“Nope. No way.” I cut her off before she can finish. “I won’t borrow money from you.”

“You have to let me do something. I’m not going to let you be homeless. You won’t do well in an alley. Cardboard boxes aren’t your thing.”

She’s trying to be funny, but the reality of my situation finally slaps me in the face like a three-day-old dead fish. Amie’s right. Unless I can find a new place to live and a decent job that can cover more than just rent I’m going to end up homeless or forced to move back home. Worse, I’ll have to live in my dad’s house with his horrible slutty wife who’s four years older than I am and probably screwing the gardener. Or the pool boy. Or both.

Moving to Alaska, where my mother currently lives, is an absolute no-go. New York winters are long enough. Besides, her cabin in the woods and little to no contact with the outside world is a bit on the extreme side for me. I’m fine to live in a crappy apartment in Harlem, but subzero temperatures and no neighbors is far outside of my comfort zone.

“I’ll get a part-time job.”

Amie gives me one of her mothering looks. “Okay, sure, but what about a place to live? You’re still going to need to save up at least first and last month, right? And pay back what you owe here. That’s a lot of money to come up with on your own.”

She makes another good point. “I don’t have an alternative, Amie. Not unless I want to move back to Rhode Island, which is the absolute last thing I want.”

“I can’t believe your dad did this. There has to be a way to make this work. What if you stay with me?”

I give Amie a look. “Where would I sleep? Your couch isn’t even a pullout.”

Amie purses her lips, considering this. I have a point. Her place is small. Her bedroom is tiny, her queen taking up a good portion of the room. Her living room can’t accommodate a full-sized couch because it, too, is small.

“I’ll call Armstrong. I’m sure I can stay with him, and then you can have my place while you sort things out.” She calls her fiancé and holds up a finger to silence me before I can argue against this plan. “Hi, Armstrong, I have a bit of a favor to ask—” She pauses for a few seconds before she continues. “Do you think it would be possible for me to stay with you for a little while . . . a week or two?” She gives me a questioning look. I shrug and then nod. I doubt two weeks will be enough, but it’s better than nothing. “But I—it would just be for . . . right . . . but—” She rolls her eyes and taps her foot.

I don’t need to hear the conversation to know what’s being said. I mouth just forget it.

“I understand. Never mind. I don’t want it to be an inconvience for you. We’ll figure something else out.” Her sarcasm isn’t lost on me. She ends the call. “I probably caught him at a bad time. I can try again later.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“He’s just particular. He needs time to warm up to the idea.”

I think it’s about more than being particular, but I don’t know that a week or two will be enough time to get me out of my current hole. My dire situation is far worse than I originally thought. My choices are beyond limited. I’ve never been good with failure. Especially not this kind. I don’t want to be a pampered rich bitch. I want to prove I can survive on my own, without my father’s handouts, but I’m worried I might not have an option now.

“Oh my God.” Amie’s eyes light up. “I might have a solution.”

“What’s that?”

“Army’s cousin, Bane, is going out of town this week.”

“What does that have to do with my being homeless?” I’m already deciding which alley would be the best location to set up my box. I still have my gym membership. I think it’s valid for another few months. I can use the showers there. “Wait, he has a friend named Bane? Does he look like Tom Hardy?”

“Um, no? His real name is Bancroft,” she explains.

“Ah. Another last-name-for-a-first-name trust-fund boy?”

“Mmm. He comes from a line of last names for first names, but he’s actually quite nice. Anyway, he asked me to stop by his place and take care of his pets while he’s away. He’ll be gone for five weeks, maybe you could take care of them instead.”

“He doesn’t even know me, why would he be okay with a stranger taking care of his pets? And that doesn’t really solve my homeless situation.”

“You’re my best friend. If I trust you, he’ll trust you. Besides, he has a rabbit, or a guinea pig, or something like that. He inherited her I think. Maybe we could suggest you stay there while he’s gone.”

“To take care of his guinea pig?”

“Why not? He said she needs lots of care and play time. And you know how I have allergies. It’s worth a shot isn’t it? Five weeks should be enough time for you to get a job and save some money to secure a new apartment, right?”

“It should be enough time.” I’m not actually sure it will be unless I get a pretty major role, but temporary accommodations will buy me some time to sort that out and it’s better than crashing on Amie’s loveseat. “When will you ask him?”

“We’re going out for dinner with him tonight. Think you can stomach a meal?”

“I can try.”

Amie smiles. “Perfect.”

“Totally.” Fingers crossed this works out. I could really use some good karma. And a home that isn’t a box.