To Have and to Hate

“I’ll take it,” I say, matter-of-factly.

Her brows shoot up in shock. I bet she assumed I was going to run out of here like my pants were on fire, but nope, I’ll happily sign on the dotted line, and I tell her so.

“Great!” she says, walking toward me with a spring in her step. “Here’s the application. If you fill it out now, I can scan it in when I get back to the office. Then the landlord will need first and last month’s rent up-front as well as a security deposit. I’m not sure of the exact dollar amount, but I’ll get that info and email you ASAP.”

I nod, trying to tally up what that total could be in my head. Hopefully, I’m good for it.

“Then there’s the background check,” she continues, after handing me the application. “And a credit check. They’ll also want to see your W-2s from the last two years.”

What?

“Why do they need W-2s?”

She looks confused by the question, like she doesn’t usually have to explain this part to her clients. “Oh, just to confirm your salary meets the minimum threshold. There’s an algorithm landlords like to use. Usually they just want to ensure that the proposed rent falls well beneath your monthly income. You know the drill.”

I don’t, actually. I lived in the dorms at RISD, and my scholarship paid for that. Before college, I was at home in my parents’ sprawling mansion in Connecticut—a mansion they haven’t paid the mortgage on for years, apparently.

“What if I don’t have a credit history or any W-2s?” I ask gently. “I could probably pay for a few months’ rent up-front instead?”

She frowns. “I’m afraid that’s not an option. It’s surprisingly hard to evict someone from an apartment once they’ve moved in. There’re all sorts of protections in place for tenants, so landlords want to ensure the person is going to be able to pay rent for the full term of the lease, not just a few months. I can’t say I blame them.”

I nod, and she must be able to see my distress because she continues, “What about getting a cosigner? Tenants your age usually have a parent or guardian cosign on a lease. That way you and the landlord are both happy.”

Right. Sure. If I had someone who could cosign, I’d happily take that option. Unfortunately, my parents are good for absolutely nothing considering how much debt they’re in, and my siblings can’t help either. Only two of them are over eighteen. Charlotte doesn’t have a job, and Jacob is still in college. I have an uncle in Minnesota—my mom’s brother—but I’ve only ever seen him a handful of times, and not once since I was twelve, so it’s not like I can just call him up and ask for help with my lease either.

“Is there any way you could ask the landlord if he’d make an exception just this once?” I ask with a pleading smile. “Like I said, I’m probably good for three months’ rent up-front, and if I sell some of my pieces then I can continue prepaying on the lease.”

Her brows scrunch together. “Pieces?”

“My art.”

That really tips her over the edge. “So you work on commission only, I’m assuming? That’ll make it even harder. Any landlord in the city will want you to have a cosigner.”

“But could you just ask? Please?”

She nods as if she’s going to do it, but I can tell she’s already writing me off.

Outside on the sidewalk, we say our farewells, and as I walk away, I feel hopeless.

I just might have to make it work at the hotel for a while instead of finding an apartment, which sucks considering even though it’s a budget-friendly place, it’s still draining my funds faster than I’d like and it’s absolutely tiny.

For the second time today, I feel like a complete idiot. I graduated from RISD with a half-baked plan to move to New York City, and I’m embarrassed to admit I thought it would be a little bit easier than this. A part of me wants to blame my parents for not preparing me for the real world. I lived an incredibly sheltered life until I moved away for college, and that’s coming back to bite me in the ass. What kind of idiot doesn’t know you need some kind of credit history and past income statements if you want to be able to lease an apartment? Apparently, this idiot.

My phone rings when I’m on the subway platform waiting on the train, still beating myself up. My first hope is that it’s Lisa calling me back already with good news, but it’s an unknown number. Usually, I’d let it go to voicemail, but I answer instead, just in case Lisa is calling me from her office line or something.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Am I speaking with Elizabeth?” a female voice asks.