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I had a little money put aside, so I rented a cute loft in SoHo. Nothing outrageously expensive, I thought. Blind optimism told me I’d get by. That someone would give me a job—I have an Ivy League education and work experience! But every way I turned, no one seemed willing to help.
“Go back to your dad,” my so-called friends said. “Tell him you’re sorry.”
But I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t. And I’m not.
I applied for jobs. Made calls. Sent out my résumé. Stalked coffee shops near galleries and offices and had stuck-up conversations with people I barely knew. And it seemed to be paying off as I got interviews—interviews that went well. But afterward, I couldn’t get them to take my calls.
My dad’s doing, I swear. I’m sure he thought imposing his will would make me panic. And it did. But when he counted on it making me fall quickly back in line, he didn’t foresee I reached the limit. I couldn’t hurt anyone else. He pushed too far, and when he did so, I finally found my backbone.
I told myself I’d wait it out, however I could and no matter what it took. Two years more, and I’d be thirty and in control of the trust fund from my grandmother. I’d come of age, reclaim my life, and be out from under his control.
I still have ten more months left.
I tamp down the threatening nausea by taking a bite of protein cardboard, forcing it down my throat with a swig of terrible coffee as my eyes slide to Cal. There is a way to speed by those ten months. A shortcut. But . . . I just don’t think I could do it to myself. Besides, I’m not sure I could trust Cal as far as I could throw him.
My phone buzzes, and I jump. Idiot, I tell myself as I swipe my sweatshirt over the scuffed melamine. I’m not chastising myself because of a little coffee. It’s more how my heart tripped with hope. I mean, he doesn’t even have my number. And even if he did, he wouldn’t use it.
Need ya to come in earlier reads the text from Irene, the owner of O’Rourke’s, the neighborhood bar where I work three shifts a week. There’s no please or thank-you in the text, no might-you-be-available. Not that I’d expect any of that from Irene. But more hours are always a good thing, especially on Saturday night, when the tips are better.
No problem. Let me know what time.
I take another bite of the bar and stare at Callum.
I really am desperate. But not that desperate.
My phone chimes again, this time with just a number:
6
A shift at 6:00 p.m. for the other version of me. Yesterday I was Sunny the waitress, and tonight, I’m Gretchen the kick-ass bartender. And neither of them is me.
Pushing back my chair, I make to top up my coffee. Despite my best efforts, I can’t stop my mind drifting back to last night. I truly can’t blame Troy for not believing me. My life is almost unbelievable. He had every right to be suspicious, seeing me there, denying the tray in my hand, insisting it was some kind of attention-seeking performance art.
I can’t blame him, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt, hence my own reactions. And my responses . . . I wasn’t attempting to insult his intelligence, but what use would there have been in the truth for either of us? I doubt I could’ve said it without crying, and he certainly wouldn’t have heard it without him making more accusations about my lying.
I could’ve said that I’m broke? That I’ve been disowned. That I can no longer afford the medication that helps me function like a normal person.
Would he have laughed?
No health care is a whole other level of poverty. But I guess the one bright side is I won’t need to sleep anymore.
“What the fuck?”
My attention jerks across the room to where Rachel stands, a sheet of paper in hand.
“Have you seen this?” she demands. “I just found it pinned to the front door.”
I’m up from my chair in an instant, taking it from her. I scan the text, and the news rattles through to the very marrow of my bones.
I’m holding an eviction notice.
Chapter 8
Troy
I take a car, and I never take a car—but it’s been some time since I rode the A train, and I’d like to keep it that way.
I still can’t get my head around that she lives in Inwood. How does a Park Avenue princess wind up there? She should’ve been okay. She had friends, money, surely. An education. Transferable skills. She should’ve had an apartment of her own. An income from investments.
