“But if I die, I won’t need life insurance.”

I tilt my head and give Hollywood’s Man of the Year a welcoming grin, as if it’s him on the other end of the line and not Bill, from an educationally lacking town called Lakeview. Not the real Man of the Year, obviously, but a photo of him I tore from a magazine. It helps me visualize that I’m talking to someone sensual and attractive. Constant acting practice. Constant.

“Mr. Jenkins—may I call you Mr. Jenkins? The life insurance policies we offer at American Blue aren’t meant to cover your personal expenses. They’re meant to assist your family, should you pass away unexpectedly.”

“Oh, shit,” he says. “I thought it was, like, for cars.”

“A similarly named product, but it serves a very different purpose.”

“Do you sell health insurance then?”

“We don’t.”

“Then what do you sell?”

Another winning smile goes to the Hollywood Man of the Year. “We can offer homeowners insurance, automobile insurance, life insurance, and rental insurance. Are you in need of any of those?”

“I don’t have any kids.”

“Do you have a home?”

This is hopeless.

“I don’t need any insurance.”

I launch into the part of my script that comes with as much relief as a full-body massage. “Nonetheless, thank you for giving me the opportunity to talk to you about the services we offer. If there’s anything else we at American Blue can do for—”

There’s a click. Bill Jenkins hung up on me.

I lean back in my chair and rub at my eyes. Last night was not an ideal night for waking up rested. I’ve had callbacks for two auditions, and I’m waiting to hear from Christy, my agent, about whether I was hired for any jobs. Either one would make it a lot easier to pay the rent. I’ve got savings, but this is New York City—they’re not enough to float me for long.

My cell phone vibrates in my purse, which is tucked into the bottom drawer of my desk. I sit upright in a hurry, but I keep it graceful. Every moment is an opportunity to practice being a movie star, so I wink at Hollywood Man of the Year and reach in a very refined manner to open the drawer and lift my phone from my purse.

It’s Christy.

“Christy, how are you?” I answer, like I know she’s calling with good news.

“Whit, I’ve got some bad news.”

Great.

“You didn’t make final callbacks for the commercial or the pilot.”

Double great.

“But we’ll keep trying.” Her voice rises with enthusiasm. For an agent, she’s a damn good actress. “I’ve got a couple other possibilities in the wings.”

Christy always has possibilities in the wings. Not many of them turn out to be real jobs.

My heart sinks deeper into my toes but I give the Man of the Year a cheeky wink. “I’m looking forward to it!”

“Talk soon!”

This is not good.

I wasn’t exactly truthful with Summer when she asked me about roommates at her wedding. The truth is, I’ve had six different roommates since she left. All of them sucked in various different ways. One was perfectly nice, but only needed the room for a month, since she was off to join the Peace Corps. One was a guy who I’m pretty sure was dealing drugs, but he was quiet and neat. I was almost sad when he left after six weeks, pressing the rest of the month’s rent into my hand.

But the last one?

He was a grade-A creep. I felt like I was living in a psychological thriller. There would be a noise in the night, a creak of the floorboard, and I felt a presence outside my bedroom door. You can bet your ass I deadbolted that thing every night. I learned how to install a deadbolt too. That took exactly forty-eight hours and thirteen different YouTube videos.

He was normal during the daytime, which was why it was so weird. But once I went to the bathroom in the night and found him standing in the doorway of his bedroom door, motionless. I wouldn’t have seen him if the light from the bathroom hadn’t illuminated his face at the last moment.

It’s honestly shocking that I didn’t die of a massive heart attack, I was so fucking scared.

Bottom line: I don’t have a roommate. I kicked him out after a month, brandishing the short-term lease contract we’d both signed, and since then, I haven’t been able to search.

The only problem?

New York City is expensive as hell. I’m an aspiring actress; not Meryl Streep, though, so my savings aren’t limitless. I could afford a couple of months of solo living while I honed my self-defense skills, but not much longer.

I purse my lips and consider my desk phone. I should be making another cold call—that is most of my job—but I need a minute. I smile, huge, as if I’m thrilled with the news, rapturous at the news. “Opportunities in the wings,” I say out loud.

Faking it until I make it is not working in this moment of my life.

My phone vibrates in my hand.

It’s a text from an unknown number, piquing my interest.

I sit up straight in my chair and bend my head studiously toward the screen so that it looks like I’m working, and open the message.

Unknown: Is this still Whitney?

I type out No, this is a phone and snicker to myself, my hard-won good mood making a swift comeback. Who could this be? Anyone who really knows me knows that I wouldn’t give up my phone number for anything. You’d have to pry that number from the cold, dead wreckage of my cell phone company. Not a chance. People have that number. At least one casting director, and up to ten. They could wake up in the middle of the night and realize I’m their girl for the breakout hit of the season. I wouldn’t risk that on changing my number.

Whitney: Yeah. Who’s this?

Unknown: Oh cool! I didn’t think it would still be your number, since it’s been so long!

Unknown: This is Eva Lipton! It’s Eva!

I can’t tell if I feel queasy or excited at the sight of the name.

Nope, it’s definitely queasy.

Why, after all these years, is she texting me out of the blue like this?

Why are you texting me out of the blue like this? I type it out and delete it. Shit. She’s probably seen that I was responding. I need to say something. And yet...how dare she force me to respond like this? I don’t care that she’s seen that ... indicator in our conversation. If she’s staring at her phone like I am, that is.

Whitney: Eva! Wow! It’s been forever! I can’t believe you still have my number!

Eva: Are you kidding? I remember our first cell phones. There’s no way I’d ever delete it. It’s been, what, twelve phones by now?

Whitney: At least. So—what’s up?

It’s not that I want to rush her through the conversation, but I don’t have unlimited time to text at my desk before it becomes, in my supervisor Howard’s words, a bit of a problem.

Eva: I moved to New York! I’m living in Astoria. Meet up with me! I want to know all about your glamorous life as an actress!

My stomach curdles. Yes, it’s so glamorous, fielding rejection calls from an agent who’s somehow an even more chipper person than you are. That’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it is that Eva actually is a success in her chosen field.

I’m not jealous. I don’t subscribe to the idea of coveting the things other people have, because you never know what’s lurking behind that happiness. Still, I did feel a pang of envy...no, admiration...when Eva’s debut novel hit all the bestseller lists over the winter. It’s one of those thrillers, one of those books everybody’s talking about. She got a movie deal. I can’t get a movie deal, and she got one writing a book.

“Comparison is the thief of joy,” I say out loud to Hollywood’s Man of the Year. There’s no reason not to meet up with Eva, if I’m being honest about it. She’s always been kind to me, even if she wasn’t nice. And we’re all grown up now. I know as well as anyone that you should cherish your old friends while you try your damndest to make new ones.

I sigh, then give Hollywood’s Man of the Year a thumbs-up to get in the mood.

Whitney: We absolutely have to! Where and when?

It’ll be fun, I tell myself. It’ll be a nice distraction from all this crap. I can wow her with some audition nightmares, things like that, and she’ll be impressed that I keep going back. Not that I need her approval...but it would be nice.

I’m half-hoping she’ll be vague about the details.

She isn’t.

Eva: Not this weekend but next? I’ve got to finish some moving stuff but then I’ll be free.

Whitney: Anywhere you’d like to go?

Eva: Your favorite place. :)

God, she out-sweets the best of them.

I hesitate over the phone. I know where my favorite place is, but it seems almost like a betrayal to invite her there instead of Summer.

Which is stupid.

I can invite Summer anytime. She has a husband and a baby, not a prison sentence, and she is still my best friend.

Whitney: Vino Veritas, by my place. You need directions?

Eva: I’ll Google. 7:00? Saturday?

Whitney: Sounds perfect!

Eva: :D

That’s that, then.

Time for me to get back to my job, connecting people with the insurance policies they need to live their best lives.

I’m bent over the open desk drawer, about to drop the phone from my fingertips into the dark confines of my purse, when it rings in my hand. I can’t take another call from Christy right now. I drop it in, and it lands face-up.

It’s not Christy, it’s Summer.

“Hey,” I say quickly into the phone. “I’m at work.”

“Sorry sorry sorry,” she says, breathing hard like she’s walking fast to meet a train. “I’m on my way to a meeting at the VA so I only have, like, five seconds. Can I ask you a question?”

“I think you just did.”

She laughs out loud. “Seriously!”

“Seriously, ask me a question. Get me fired. I can’t believe you’re going to end my career this way, but in light of our relationship, I have no choice but to—”

“Are you at your desk?”

“Yes! Didn’t you hear me when I said I was at work?”

“I thought you meant you were in the breakroom or something.”

“That would be more awkward than talking about this at my desk.”

“Hey, how are things going?” Genuine concern fills Summer’s voice and spills out through the phone. It makes my heart warm, but it also uncovers the sting of rejection. Ouch. “I’ve missed you, since I moved out. We should go to Vino soon.”

“This weekend?”

“Yes. Day can stay with January on Saturday afternoon. But you cannot send me home plastered. It’s not a good look on a doting mother.”

“Yuck. Don’t say doting.”

“Sorry,” she says, laughing again. Summer has a kind laugh. I wonder if I’d sound like that if everything were lined up in neat little rows in my life. Not that her life is like that. She didn’t expect to get pregnant with Dayton, but she’s slipped into the role as effortlessly as a lubed-up dick into a willing orifice. “But, Whit—”

“Tell me. What is it? Your wish is my command.”

“You are so weird.”

“Same to you, sister.”

“Okay. I’m at the building. Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”

“I’m all ears.”

“I need to ask you a favor.” Summer hesitates. “A big favor.”