On paper, it was all her favorite things about acting without the things she was insecure about. The way she looked, the way she moved. She could pour everything into the characters, bring the story to life, and not have to worry about any of it.
Her heart beat faster.There was that feeling.Like she was strapped into a roller coaster clicking up a steep track. It could never be that easy.
Megs pulled over and parked on the curb. The house was painted a cheerful blue with white trim just like in the pictures.
"Alright." Megs straightened her shoulders as they got out of the car. "Hopefully, third one’s a charm."
Sylvia sighed and adjusted her glasses. Megs knocked on the door and a girl with a pixie cut flung it open. “Hey. Are you Megs?”
Megs nodded, and the girl held out her hand. “I’m Neely. Here, come in.”
As they stepped inside, Megs held her breath. She scanned the living area, just waiting to see something broken or disgusting. The furniture was worn, but clean. There were books on the shelves and a guitar sitting in the corner.
“I can show you the room we have open. I know it’s probably not the best option you’ve found, but it’s cozy.”
Megs grinned. “Let’s see it.” She liked this place already. Her apartment in Chicago had been on the fourth floor with no elevator, her roommate rarely smelled like anything but weed, and the guy across the hall always sat in front of his door making sand art.
Megs ascended the narrow wooden stairs behind Neely, each step creaking in protest under her weight. “These stairs have seen better days,” Sylvia murmured.
Neely swung open the wooden door once they reached the landing. "Welcome to the loft."
“Isn’t this an attic?” Her mother asked.
“Mom.”
Neely grinned. “Loft sounds more exciting than attic.”
The room was small. Intimate. The ceiling was slanted, framed by wooden beams, and a single window sent a splash of sunlight onto the hardwood floor. The paint on the walls, once a vibrant aqua, had faded over time.
“It’s . . . quaint.” Sylvia folded her arms.
"It's a little rough around the edges," Neely admitted. "But it's got character. With a little love and care it could be really charming.”
“And you can’t beat the price,” Megs murmured. This room had been listed at three hundred and fifty dollars a month. Probably because there wasn’t a private bathroom and it was on the edge of town, but those seemed like hurdles she could easily jump after seeing the other two options.
Her mom pointed to a clay sculpture sitting on the windowsill. "Did someone here make this?" she inquired.
Neely nodded. "Yeah, I did. I work at the pottery studio just outside of town. It's where I create most of my pieces.”
“It’s beautiful.” Megs shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. "I think this place has potential.”
They took a quick peek at the bathroom at the bottom of the stairs, then thanked Neely and walked back to the car. Megs’ mind was humming. That place felt like a home, not some barrack she’d be forced to live in.
“I don’t know, Megs. I think you could find something better. Something with a bathroom, at least, and I’m more than happy to pay a higher deposit—”
"I think it’s perfect.”
Fourteen
Gideon steppedout onto Matt's back patio and sucked in a breath to keep his ribs from cinching tight around his lungs. The space was an oasis. Lush greenery edged the stonework and gas fireplace, and twinkling fairy lights were strung overhead, connected to who knew what.
He’d known based on news and social media feeds that Matt was doing well, but this house? It was next level. Not that he was jealous, he loved his townhouse. Loved his neighborhood. But he couldn't help but feel a bit emasculated knowing that he and Matt had once stood together at the same starting line.
"Isn't this place amazing?" Alli gushed, her eyes wide as she spun in a circle. She leaned in closer, her body brushing against his as she nudged him with her elbow.
“It really is.” Gideon drew a deep breath and exhaled. He needed to shake off work or there was no way he was going to have a good time. He’d made good on his promise to help Jennifer with her mid-term project and met with her at the recording studio.
Right as they were about to finish up, Donna Stace, an art history professor, had peered through the window and knocked. She hadn’t even waited until Jennifer was out of earshot to express her concerns at walking through the hall to find him meeting one-on-one with a young female student.
