The Shacking Up Series Page 4

  “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 time 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 b
y 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.

  Chapter 4: Dinner Plans

  RUBY

  Upon deciding my new life mission is to become a squatter/pet sitter for the next five weeks, which is slightly more dignified than living in a box in an alley, Amie raided my closet for an introduction-appropriate outfit.

  Over the past several years I’ve traded in my pretentious, ultra-expensive and often uncomfortable clothes for a wardrobe of black, inexpensive pieces with a few colorful items for those days when I want to rebel against New York’s mourning-inspired fashion rules. The recent lack of money flow also impedes my ability to buy unnecessarily expensive items to add to my ever-shrinking, unimpressive wardrobe.

  “How long have you had this dress?” Amie holds up a little red number.