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That goal is one that’s going to take me years. If you want to ‘make it big’, you have to perfect your craft and that isn’t something you can do overnight or even in five or ten years.
It doesn’t help that shows can get canceled at the drop of a hat, cutting off any potential opportunities to be seen and get your name out there. Being a Broadway star isn’t for the faint hearted. It’s why I work multiple jobs. Because when things like this happen, you lose your whole income stream, and living in New York City is not cheap.
Pulling one of my duffels further onto my shoulder with one hand, I slip my other under my white t-shirt and into the loop of my jeans, tugging them up. I can’t wait to get out of them. There aren’t many things worse than having your jeans fall down as you're trying to keep up with the pace of a crowded street.
The air conditioning was broken on the bus ride home and when you add in twenty already hot and sweaty people, it’s just a recipe for disaster. I get a whiff of my armpits, barely holding back the gag at the stench as I trudge along the pavement. Maybe a long overdue soak in Will’s tub wouldn’t go amiss.
Our tub?
Will—my boyfriend of six months—and I moved in together just before I went away. Some may call me impulsive, but I like to think of myself as decisive.Why hang around when you know what you want?
Okay, maybe I don’tknowthat I want Will, but what I do know is that he’s nice enough company, and he does make me laugh… sometimes.
When I told Mama that I was moving in with him, she told me I should wait. Perhaps she’s right and I should have. Or I should have at least waited until I came back from the workshop, but his suggestion came at a time when I needed it most. Living with five other girls in a small brownstone mere blocks away from him seemed like a waste.
Especially when, slowly, over the course of a couple of months, there seemed to be this weird tension growing between me and one of my roommates. It was even worse if Will came around. I put it down to the fact that Will can be a bit cocky even if the other girls didn’t seem to mind, so I suggested we spend more and more time at his. One night, we were sitting on his couch and he asked me to move in. It didn’t sound so bad, so I said yes.
Except for the fact that we’ve lived together for ten weeks and only seen each other for two of those.
Of course, we’ve spoken—occasionally—while I’ve been away, but it’s always crazy busy when you’re workshopping a show and priorities change. Because of this, our contact has been brief. Had I been in the city, my focus would have been on building a relationship with him.
Add in all the late nights and early mornings, and it’s really hard to maintain a relationship when you’re trying to build a career that demands you give it your every waking moment. I’m lucky to have found a guy that also works insane hours—he’s a stockbroker—and so doesn’t mind that his girlfriend is barely around. It’s a comfortable companionship.
On the ride home, I pulled out my phone and typed out a message to him to let him know I would be home early, but something in my gut told me not to press send. Will should be at work, so there should be no reason for this heavy, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, like a foreboding of what’s to come. But my gut has got me this far in life, so instead, I put my phone away and decided not to tell him.
‘Home’ is currently a brownstone in Brooklyn. I wouldn’t really call it home, not when—aside from my suitcases—there isn’t a whole lot of evidence that I live there.
Lost in my own thoughts, I get shoulder checked by a commuter on the sidewalk. My bag slides from my shoulder and I bend to pick it up to a chorus of curses and “get out the way.” Hurriedly, I swipe it up, as I move my legs and match the flow of the crowd.
The bus dropped us at the theatre and for some reason, even with the ache of the last two months, I still thought it would be a good idea to walk home. I just want to soak in the tub, get changed, no doubt tidy up Will’s mess and make us some dinner before he gets back. An apology of sorts for being gone so long.
My eyes snag on the subway sign on the corner of the block and I pick up the pace. From here, I can be there in fifteen minutes. It seems like a no brainer.
The rest of the journey passes in a blur and before I know it, I’m turning my key in the lock, letting myself into the house. A blast of cool air hits me as I step out of the warm late July air. Thank heavens I’m home, but I don’t think this weather warrants the air conditioning being left on while Will’s at work.
Throwing my bags on the floor by the door, I toss my keys on the table that sits underneath the coat hooks. Taking a step forward, I still when my eyes land on a bralette that’s haphazardly hanging on the bannister. My brow tugs together as my mind runs through my two weeks in this house.
It’s right in view of the front door. I haven’t done any laundry. Neither have I had a chance to unpack my fancy underwear.
Moving toward it, I pick it up from the dark mahogany post for a closer inspection. It’s cute but definitely a few sizes too big for me. A closer look at the label confirms the DD cup bra belongs to someone else.
All of this leads me to the one conclusion I was hoping wasn’t true—that bralette is most definitely not mine.
With the bra dangling from my finger, my gaze darts around the room, finding more discarded clothes. A white men’s shirt lays crumpled on the floor, with a bright pink crop top not far from it. I follow the trail of clothes into the living room to the right of the staircase.
In typical brownstone fashion, the entryway is narrow, with the staircase to the upper floors directly in front of you. The first room is the living room, with the kitchen at the back of the house and a half bathroom between the two rooms. It’s a nice house, but it’s a bachelor pad, all grays and blacks, with no color to break up the boring aesthetic of his furniture.
There’s a jacket thrown over the arm of the couch, but other than that, there’s no more clothing in the living room. Returning to the hallway, my eyes land on pieces of fabric leading upstairs. It’s like I was blind to it all when I first stepped inside.
There’s no mistaking that these are hastily discarded. I squint as I try to figure out if the belt buckle glinting at me is the one Will wears. He told me some story or other about how he came to get a belt with his initials, but to be honest, I tuned him out.
Who even wears their initials on things?
It definitely looks like his.
My gaze moves to the flash of red draped over the step above. Last time I checked, my boyfriend doesn’t wear G-strings. Or bralettes for that matter.
The sounds of New York draw my attention to the still open front door. Moving to close it, I stand still, listening for any sounds that don’t belong.
