Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

I cry real tears during my audition. Ones born of true frustration, for my own predicament, for the role I want. I may take it a touch too far into melodrama, but it’s definitely therapeutic.

I leave the theater feeling less angry and really damn hungry. I find a pizza place and scarf down two slices. Then I return to my new, temporary home, shower, and get ready for work.

Tomorrow I need to find an apartment. I won’t put Amie out like this for longer than I have to. More than anything, I just want to be able to manage life on my own, without having to rely on anyone else for support—at least the financial kind. While this situation sucks, at least my current job will afford me money for rent and the basics. I don’t need or want luxury if it comes with this kind of emotional price tag.

Work feels different tonight. I keep expecting to see Bancroft standing at the back of the club, looking angry. But he’s not, because he’s in another country. As angry as I am, I’m also sad. He’d become a friend. Someone who didn’t judge me and accepted me for who I was.

In the morning I’m disappointed all over again by the lack of communication from him. I guess that tells me clearly where we stand.

I drive his truck back to his condo and allow the valet to park it. I’m surprised I’ve managed to return it with no damage, apart from the latte I spilled in the center console. I didn’t try very hard to clean it up. I hope by the time he gets back it smells like sour milk in there. It’s vindictive, but I’m not feeling all that nice on account of his hypocrisy.

I spend an hour playing with Francesca and make sure Tiny is okay—she won’t require feeding until the weekend and I’m assuming Bancroft will be home by then. I hope so. Coming back here just hurts. Leaving Francesca is its own kind of painful.

I rub her belly as she rolls around on the floor. “I’m going to miss you so much.”

She curls around my hand and nips at my fingers, then she climbs into my lap, sticking her head under my shirt. Stretching up on her hind legs her head pops out of the neck of my top, between my boobs. I laugh, and then start to cry.

She butts my chin with her nose and rubs her little face on my neck. I cuddle with her, letting my ridiculous tears fall until she gets squirmy and tries to wriggle out of my hold. I never expected to become so attached to her, or Tiny, or Bancroft.

I need a distraction, so my mission for the rest of the day becomes apartment hunting. I don’t imagine it’s going to be easy to find something reasonably priced and available immediately. I don’t want to go back to a diet that consists primarily of ramen noodles, but I will if it means being able to pursue this dream I’m not willing to let die.

I’m almost back to Amie’s apartment when I get a call from an unfamiliar number. It’s local, so it can’t be Bancroft. I answer on the third ring.

“Hello, may I please speak with Ruby Scott?”

It’s an unfamiliar male voice. Oh God. I hope it’s not a collection agency. I’ve been really good about paying down my loans and credit card. “That’s me.”

“This is Jack Russell. You auditioned for me yesterday.”

My heart jumps up in my throat. I cross my fingers. “Yes. Yes I did.”

“We were all very impressed with your audition.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Unfortunately, the role you’ve auditioned for has been filled,” he says.

Of course it has. Because I have terrible luck. Because I suck. Because I can’t do this on my own. Because I’m destined to be a corporate drone, dealing in penis-hardening stimulants for the rest of my life. Or a prison bitch for murdering my whore-mother when I’m forced to work with her, because that’s the direction my life is going in.

I tune back in just in time to hear, “—today to audition for another role.”

“I’m sorry, could you please repeat that?”

“It’s a slightly more challenging role, but your paperwork indicates you have vocal background. If you’re interested, we’d like you to come back and audition this afternoon.”

“I can do that. Definitely. I’m interested. What time would you like me to be there?”

“Can you make two o’clock? We have an opening at that time.”

“I’ll be there. Is it at the same theater?”

“Actually, no, it’s down the street. Not too far away.” I scribbled down the address and realize he’s talking about the New World Stages on West Fiftieth. This is a big deal. Not Broadway big, but Off-Broadway significant. It’s a huge step in the right direction. Getting this role, or any role in this production would be amazing for my career.

I call Amie so I have someone to be excited with, but it goes to voice mail. A pang of sadness hits me when I see Bancroft’s number not far down the list of recent calls. If this had been a few days ago, he would’ve been the first person I called. Possibly ahead of Amie. That tells me, in a way I didn’t expect, just how attached to him I’ve become. I shake off the sadness and rush back to Amie’s to prepare for my audition.

This time I’m put together and organized. I show up half an hour early, expecting it will give me some time to review the script—I didn’t even think to ask what the play or the part was, I was so excited.

Ten minutes after I arrive they call me in, so I barely have enough time to look over the script or learn the song I’m supposed to sing. I don’t even have a chance to get nervous.

And maybe that’s exactly why I nail it. It’s going to be such a cool production and the acoustics in this theater are outrageous. Once again I’m riding a high as I head back out into the warmth and the sunshine. As I’m passing the little theater where I auditioned yesterday, I notice a flyer in warning-sign-yellow. It’s impossible to miss. And it says FOR RENT.

I have no idea how long it’s been there, but with my current string of luck, I call the number.

I get voice mail, so I leave a message and take a picture of the address. I don’t think it’s terribly far from here. It would be amazing if I managed to find a place within walking distance, or a short subway ride, of my best friend. For as long as she’s still living in her apartment, anyway.

I need to be at the club around six and it’s already approaching four, so I get my gear together and grab something to eat. I need to work a trip to the market into my day. Amie’s lettuce selection isn’t all that inspiring, or filling.

I’m considering leaving for the club early so I don’t have to sit around and think about how a few days ago I could’ve shared my excitement with Bancroft, and now I can’t. I can’t exactly share it with the girls at the club either.

If I get this role, I’ll have to quit or at least cut back my shifts. Quitting is more likely. And that makes me sad, because as scandalous as my job is, it’s been a freeing experience. More than that, it’s actually fun—aside from the horrible blisters and the calf cramps. Those I won’t miss.

But this role would come with a very decent paycheck. One I can live off of. And the production is anticipated to be long running. This is what I’ve worked so hard for. It’s exactly what I want. I try not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard.

Just as I’m shoving my feet into my shoes the phone rings. I recognize it as the number from the rental advertisement. I fully expect the person to sound like Darth Vader, or that the ad is old and the apartment is rented, but I’m shocked to discover it’s not. It’s a sublet, and it’s only available for two months.