I left it. How many times had I helped women find apartments for under five hundred a month? Had I ever seen one of them? Of course not. I just made the arrangements, then someone else took them out to look, and they found one that would do, and I'd ticked another task off my list.
Now, as I tromped through a parade of pest-infested holes, I wondered what kind of place Cathy had ended up in. She'd taken what she could get. It was all she expected from an apartment. All she expected from life.
Finally, I decided I could go as high as six hundred, and found a place that, while tiny and shabby, was in a decent neighborhood, and didn't stink of anything except air freshener.
"I'll take it," I said. "That's six hundred up front, right?"
"Twelve hundred," the portly man said. "First and last's month. Like always."
I quickly calculated. I'd only have a few hundred left, and I had no idea when I'd get a job and--
I could do this. I'd have a place to sleep, and I'd already bought clothing and toiletries. I'd only need food and cab fare. No, bus fare. I could figure out how to use public transport.
"Twelve hundred then. Okay. So--"
"There's the damage deposit, too. Another six hundred."
Another six hundred that I didn't have. Another apartment that I didn't get.
The next one on my list was the same price, but also required first and last month's, plus a thousand dollars damage deposit.
"You don't seem like the kind of girl who'd cause a lot of trouble, though," the landlord mused.
"I'm not. Could we do it another way? Take the second month's rent as a damage deposit, then as soon as I can, I'll give you an actual deposit."
"I don't think we need to make it that complicated. You look like a good girl. Pretty, too. I'm sure we could work something out," he said, gaze sliding to my chest.
There was a surreal moment where I reflected that this, too, was something new. I'd always escaped roaming hands at crowded parties, alcohol-fueled invitations from college boys. I suppose something about me said I wasn't the type. But that had changed.
I was vulnerable. And men like this could tell.
"Actually, no," I said. "It's not really right for me. I'm sorry. I'll let myself out."
I would like to say that I walked out, chin up, pace measured. I didn't. I practically bolted from the apartment. I reached the front door and swung out, getting some distance before I stopped under a streetlamp, leaning back, breathing. Just breathing.
When I looked around, I realized how quiet everything was. It shouldn't have been. I was on a busy street, two lanes of late rush-hour traffic making its way to a major thoroughfare. The sidewalk was just as busy, commuters cutting across to the nearest L station. But standing on that corner, it was as if someone had shoved plugs into my ears. Everything was unnaturally hushed, muffled. Dimmed, too, as if my glasses had darkened to shades.
The sounds, the sights, the smells were all so much easier for my brain to process--or not process, but skim past, dismissing as unimportant. And I realized it had been like that all day. Maybe I should have thought, Well, at least one good thing happened to me today. But, as I looked around, anxiety strummed through me, searching for something to latch onto. I don't know what that meant. Just that I felt as if I was slipping and needed to grab something for traction.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
"Olivia?"
A man's voice. Soft. Concerned.
My eyes flew open. I caught a glimpse of a dark overcoat behind a parked SUV. A man coming my way. Light hair flashed over the roof of the vehicle.
James.
I exhaled, the wave of relief so strong I shuddered.
The man hopped onto the sidewalk and grinned my way, and I just stood there, staring at him, blinking, as if my eyeglass prescription was wrong.
Not James.
A stranger. With a camera. Lifting it. Pointing at me.
My hands flew to my face.