by Amelia Wilde
“Talk soon!”
This is not good.
I wasn’t exactly truthful with Summer when she asked me about roommates at her wedding. The truth is, I’ve had six different roommates since she left. All of them sucked in various different ways. One was perfectly nice, but only needed the room for a month, since she was off to join the Peace Corps. One was a guy who I’m pretty sure was dealing drugs, but he was quiet and neat. I was almost sad when he left after six weeks, pressing the rest of the month’s rent into my hand.
But the last one?
He was a grade-A creep. I felt like I was living in a psychological thriller. There would be a noise in the night, a creak of the floorboard, and I felt a presence outside my bedroom door. You can bet your ass I deadbolted that thing every night. I learned how to install a deadbolt too. That took exactly forty-eight hours and thirteen different YouTube videos.
He was normal during the daytime, which was why it was so weird. But once I went to the bathroom in the night and found him standing in the doorway of his bedroom door, motionless. I wouldn’t have seen him if the light from the bathroom hadn’t illuminated his face at the last moment.
It’s honestly shocking that I didn’t die of a massive heart attack, I was so fucking scared.
Bottom line: I don’t have a roommate. I kicked him out after a month, brandishing the short-term lease contract we’d both signed, and since then, I haven’t been able to search.
The only problem?
New York City is expensive as hell. I’m an aspiring actress; not Meryl Streep, though, so my savings aren’t limitless. I could afford a couple of months of solo living while I honed my self-defense skills, but not much longer.
I purse my lips and consider my desk phone. I should be making another cold call—that is most of my job—but I need a minute. I smile, huge, as if I’m thrilled with the news, rapturous at the news. “Opportunities in the wings,” I say out loud.
Faking it until I make it is not working in this moment of my life.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
It’s a text from an unknown number, piquing my interest.
I sit up straight in my chair and bend my head studiously toward the screen so that it looks like I’m working, and open the message.
Unknown: Is this still Whitney?
I type out No, this is a phone and snicker to myself, my hard-won good mood making a swift comeback. Who could this be? Anyone who really knows me knows that I wouldn’t give up my phone number for anything. You’d have to pry that number from the cold, dead wreckage of my cell phone company. Not a chance. People have that number. At least one casting director, and up to ten. They could wake up in the middle of the night and realize I’m their girl for the breakout hit of the season. I wouldn’t risk that on changing my number.
Whitney: Yeah. Who’s this?
Unknown: Oh cool! I didn’t think it would still be your number, since it’s been so long!
Unknown: This is Eva Lipton! It’s Eva!
I can’t tell if I feel queasy or excited at the sight of the name.
Nope, it’s definitely queasy.
Why, after all these years, is she texting me out of the blue like this?
Why are you texting me out of the blue like this? I type it out and delete it. Shit. She’s probably seen that I was responding. I need to say something. And yet...how dare she force me to respond like this? I don’t care that she’s seen that ... indicator in our conversation. If she’s staring at her phone like I am, that is.
Whitney: Eva! Wow! It’s been forever! I can’t believe you still have my number!
Eva: Are you kidding? I remember our first cell phones. There’s no way I’d ever delete it. It’s been, what, twelve phones by now?
Whitney: At least. So—what’s up?
It’s not that I want to rush her through the conversation, but I don’t have unlimited time to text at my desk before it becomes, in my supervisor Howard’s words, a bit of a problem.
Eva: I moved to New York! I’m living in Astoria. Meet up with me! I want to know all about your glamorous life as an actress!
My stomach curdles. Yes, it’s so glamorous, fielding rejection calls from an agent who’s somehow an even more chipper person than you are. That’s not even the worst of it. The worst of it is that Eva actually is a success in her chosen field.
I’m not jealous. I don’t subscribe to the idea of coveting the things other people have, because you never know what’s lurking behind that happiness. Still, I did feel a pang of envy...no, admiration...when Eva’s debut novel hit all the bestseller lists over the winter. It’s one of those thrillers, one of those books everybody’s talking about. She got a movie deal. I can’t get a movie deal, and she got one writing a book.
“Comparison is the thief of joy,” I say out loud to Hollywood’s Man of the Year. There’s no reason not to meet up with Eva, if I’m being honest about it. She’s always been kind to me, even if she wasn’t nice. And we’re all grown up now. I know as well as anyone that you should cherish your old friends while you try your damndest to make new ones.
I sigh, then give Hollywood’s Man of the Year a thumbs-up to get in the mood.
Whitney: We absolutely have to! Where and when?
It’ll be fun, I tell myself. It’ll be a nice distraction from all this crap. I can wow her with some audition nightmares, things like that, and she’ll be impressed that I keep going back. Not that I need her approval...but it would be nice.
I’m half-hoping she’ll be vague about the details.
She isn’t.
Eva: Not this weekend but next? I’ve got to finish some moving stuff but then I’ll be free.
Whitney: Anywhere you’d like to go?
Eva: Your favorite place. :)
God, she out-sweets the best of them.
I hesitate over the phone. I know where my favorite place is, but it seems almost like a betrayal to invite her there instead of Summer.
Which is stupid.
I can invite Summer anytime. She has a husband and a baby, not a prison sentence, and she is still my best friend.
Whitney: Vino Veritas, by my place. You need directions?
Eva: I’ll Google. 7:00? Saturday?
Whitney: Sounds perfect!
Eva: :D
That’s that, then.
Time for me to get back to my job, connecting people with the insurance policies they need to live their best lives.
I’m bent over the open desk drawer, about to drop the phone from my fingertips into the dark confines of my purse, when it rings in my hand. I can’t take another call from Christy right now. I drop it in, and it lands face-up.
It’s not Christy, it’s Summer.
“Hey,” I say quickly into the phone. “I’m at work.”
“Sorry sorry sorry,” she says, breathing hard like she’s walking fast to meet a train. “I’m on my way to a meeting at the VA so I only have, like, five seconds. Can I ask you a question?”
“I think you just did.”
She laughs out loud. “Seriously!”
“Seriously, ask me a question. Get me fired. I can’t believe you’re going to end my career this way, but in light of our relationship, I have no choice but to—”
“Are you at your desk?”
“Yes! Didn’t you hear me when I said I was at work?”
“I thought you meant you were in the breakroom or something.”
“That would be more awkward than talking about this at my desk.”
“Hey, how are things going?” Genuine concern fills Summer’s voice and spills out through the phone. It makes my heart warm, but it also uncovers the sting of rejection. Ouch. “I’ve missed you, since I moved out. We should go to Vino soon.”
“This weekend?”
“Yes. Day can stay with January on Saturday afternoon. But you cannot send me home plastered. It’s not a good look on a doting mother.”
“Yuck. Don’t say doting.”
“Sorry,” she says, laughing again. Summer has a kind laugh. I wonder if I’d sound like that if everything were lined up in neat little rows in my life. Not that her life is like that. She didn’t expect to get pregnant with Dayton, but she’s slipped into the role as effortlessly as a lubed-up dick into a willing orifice. “But, Whit—”
“Tell me. What is it? Your wish is my command.”
“You are so weird.”
“Same to you, sister.”
“Okay. I’m at the building. Are you ready to hear what I have to say?”
“I’m all ears.”
“I need to ask you a favor.” Summer hesitates. “A big favor.”
6
Wes
“You’ve had a lot of bad ideas in your life, Sunny, but this one’s the worst.”
“I disagree,” Summer says. “It’s the perfect solution. She needs a roommate. You need a room.”
Two of those things are true. I do need a room. Commuting from Newark is soul-crushingly obnoxious, and I have no reason to live there anymore. It was a pipe dream I followed after leaving Fort Drum, and like all pipe dreams, it didn’t pan out. And Whitney probably does need a roommate.
But it’s not the perfect solution.
I’m only going along with it because what the hell else am I going to do? I’ve visited three other places this week, and all of them set me the fuck off. Is everyone in the city a drug-addicted slob? So much for finding something decent within my price range.
This is the last option. That doesn’t mean it’s a good one.
“She’s really a great person,” Summer says. “You met her at the wedding, so you already know that.”
I know more than Summer thinks. “Yes. I met her before the wedding. You sent her after me like a fucking attack dog.”
Sunny laughs. “She’s not an attack dog. She can be a little...intense, but she’s almost always happy. You’ll like her if you get to know her.”
Getting to know her isn’t the issue. She’s not the kind of person I need in my life. She’s too flighty, too in-your-face, too unpredictable. No fucking way.
But being that close?
Jesus.
It’s been two weeks since the wedding, and I can still taste her on my lips. I can still feel the electric jolt in my palms when I took her waist in my hands, feel the curve of her hips under the fabric of that dress. My cock jumps at the memory. God. Think about anything else. Think about wet newspapers. Think about the desert sand in my mouth. Think about...don’t think about that.
“I can tell you’re stewing about this,” Summer says into the silence over the phone. “You really shouldn’t, Wes. It’s a great apartment. It’s a great location. So close to your job. And she works a lot. She won’t be a bother.”
“She’s being a real pain in the ass right now,” I shoot back. “This meeting is ridiculous.” A curl of irritation winds its way up through my chest and squeezes at my heart, threatening to harden into rage. I shouldn’t have to be at her beck and call to get a fucking sublease.
“She has a good heart,” Summer says gently. “Indulge her. I promise, it’ll be worth it.”
Goose bumps rise on the back of my neck, and I put my hand up to cover them. It sounds like she’s talking about being with Whitney, not just sharing an apartment. She’s not, but her words hum with a double meaning that makes me suspicious.
“What do you mean, it’ll be worth it?”
There’s a muffled noise on the other end of the line—Summer covering her phone with her hand. Then—”Wes? Are you still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. January woke up from her nap and she needs me. The meeting will be fine. You’re going to love her. I gotta go! Bye!”
You’re going to love her.
I slip my phone back into my pocket and scan the block ahead for the place we’re supposed to meet.
There it is—the sign. A trendy neon thing on a black backboard, the light shaped like a wine glass.
My soul recoils.
If she thinks she’s going to get the upper hand, she’s dead wrong.
“We’re not meeting here.”
Whitney blinks up at me from a table tucked along the side wall of a wine bar that’s both trendy and hipster in a way that makes my skin crawl. The wait staff is uniformly willowy, even the guys, and I’m not going to sit here, sipping wine out of an oversized glass just to appease her.
“We’re already here.”
“No. Hard pass.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re supposed to be wooing me, so you won’t be homeless when you start your new job.”
“You’re supposed to be impressing me, so you won’t be homeless when I start my new job.”
Whitney purses her lips into a red lipstick pouting grin. “I’m not nearly that destitute.”
“I know how rent is in the city.” If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be meeting her here, in this wine bar, for any length of time.
“I know how men are in the city. What’s the problem with meeting here?”
I glance around. Is she seeing what I’m seeing? Is she seeing me standing here, looking like a fucking asshole? “It’s not my kind of place.”
She sighs, lowering her glass to the table. “What is your kind of place?”
“I’ll show you.”
“But I—” Whitney huffs a breath out through her nose. “Fine.” She lifts the glass to her lips and tosses the rest of it back in one go. It’s not half a minute before she’s tossed a twenty on the table, gathered her purse, and followed me out.
“It’s not what you thought, is it?”
Whitney looks around Macmillan’s, suspicion shining in her eyes. “No.”
“Why is your face like that?”
“Because, Wes Sullivan, I can’t tell if you brought me here to fuck with me, or because this is actually your bar.”
“Wes, sit down. You’re making everybody nervous,” calls the bartender, Keith, while he slides two beers to a couple on high stools.
Whitney smiles and gives Keith a little wave. Even from all the way over here by the door, I can see the burly man’s cheeks go a ruddier shade. “So, it is your bar,” she says to me.
“What did you expect?”
“I expected a dive.” She looks skyward, as if picturing the scene. “Something manly. Something rough. I don’t know. Biker guys around a pool table.”
I look sidelong at her. “You think I hang around in places like Road House?” I mean the Road House before Swayze shows up. Jesus.
Whitney does that little closed-mouth grin again, and it’s cute. Not that I’m ever going to tell her that. “You have some...rough aspects to your personality. By which I mean that sometimes you act like a total asshole.”
I laugh. “You’ve got it all wrong. Assholes are too good for dive bars.”
“Not the ones I’ve met.”
“Maybe you haven’t met the right one.”
Whitney chuckles, and her gaze flicks to the floor. What was that? All I did was make a joke about meeting the right asshole, and the confident, take-no-prisoners persona fell away. My heart picks up. Maybe there’s more to her than that.
Not that it matters. I’m never going to be with a girl like her.
“Let’s grab a table.” I head for my favorite spot in the back corner and slide into the booth, my back against the wall, full view of the restaurant. The only thing I can’t see is the kitchen, but the door to the back is three feet away, and it’s as tiny as they come, so if anybody makes trouble, I’ll be the first to know, after the cooks.
“Nice table.” Whitney tucks her purse in next to her and grabs one of the laminated menus from a holder on the wall. “You can buy me an apology dinner.”
“An apology dinner?”
That smile. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”
I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “You came on a little strong.”
“Because you—” She drops the menu and raises both
hands into the air. “Let’s not play the blame game, even if it is your fault that I had to go on a Mission: Impossible search for you.” She looks straight at me, eyes dark and deep. “We both need something out of this.”
There it is again—that pickup in the chest, a beat of my heart that serves as a warning. There’s more than one meaning layered in her words, and in the back of my mind I hear it: the question I refuse to ask. What does she need?
“I need an apartment.”
“I need rent money.” She looks down again and I see her face without any walls, completely vulnerable. It’s a squeeze around my heart, that moment. I don’t get it. She is all wrong for me. She is ridiculous and vibrant and self-centered and pushy. She’s all the things I don’t want in a woman. She’s too loud. She’s just too loud.
Beyond that, I know—she needs more than rent money. My heart might be overreacting, racing along inside my chest, but my gut is saying, Back the hell up. Get away from a girl who needs more from you than rent money. You’re in no position to give it.
In the kitchen, something metal crashes to the floor, the sound reverberating out into the restaurant and through the table, through my fingertips, a zap straight to the heart. It was already beating fast, but now all the beats blur into one painful, powerful thud. I press my fingertips harder into the wood surface of the table, the knuckles going white, and fight it.
The seat underneath me lifts off the ground, the wheels losing contact with the road, and I tighten my grip instinctively on the steering wheel, though I don’t know what I can do. We’ve been hit. We’ve been hit. The Humvee lurches to the right, the floor underneath me a yawning hole that I’ve barely missed. Dust chokes the air in here, and I’m saying something. The words don’t connect from my mouth to my brain. It’s all autopilot and the communication system squawks. I can’t hear a fucking thing, my ears ringing, and the heat is too intense, even for the desert.
