“So,” Sybil said, and Julian let her take the lead because it came naturally to her. “Betty, tell us everything important we need to know about you.”
Betty raised and lowered a shoulder. Julian didn’t believe the performance. You don’t end up on the graveyard shift at a diner in lower Harlem if you don’t have a story.
“Moved here from North Carolina. Thought I could be, like, an actress. Turns out that being cast in your high school musical in your small town of ten thousand people does not qualify you for Broadway.”
“Oh, you’re an actress?” Sybil looked delighted. “My bestfriend is a casting director. Can I help?” She aimed her phone at Betty. “Can I take a quick pic? I know she’s casting something right now. And she’s always looking if that doesn’t pan out.”
Betty held up a hand abruptly, blocking the camera. “No, no. I’m actually not much of an actress, as it turns out. I’m a better waitress than an actress, which pretty much tells you everything.”
“So this is the plan? Overnight shift until something better comes along?” Zeke asked.
“Overnight shift until I save enough to move out of my apartment. My roommate’s a psychopath.” She flopped that shoulder again. They all looked at her expectantly, and she just said, “Don’t ask. It’s a nightmare.”
“Zeke, isn’t your apartment about as big as the White House?” Julian said. He remembered reading about it in thePostwhen the sale had gone through. Some gargantuan penthouse that was ridiculous even for a family of five, much less a thirty-four-year-old bachelor. ThePosthad claimed the co-op board had a heated debate over his application approval. No one in New York really wanted a celebrity in their building, but also, the diehards kind of wanted Zeke Rodriguez in their building. Such was the blessed life of the golden boy.
“I mean,” Zeke said. “It’s not small, I guess.” Now it was his turn to shrug.
“Maybe Betty could crash with you?” Julian suggested.
“Oh,” Zeke replied.
“Oh no,” Betty said over him.
“That is agreatidea.” Sybil beamed, and Julian knew that her endorsement would sway Zeke. He’d seen the way that the All-Star’s eyes lingered on her for approval, how even when they were just talking about mundane stuff in their group chatat threea.m., Zeke always tapped a heart on Sybil’s text. “Betty, you’re a young woman in New York City, and I know you’re not my daughter, but it wouldn’t be so bad if you had a roommate.”
“I have a roommate,” Betty said.
“A psychopath,” Julian offered.
“You know what?” Zeke said. “My apartmentisridiculous. And I actually wouldn’t mind the company. Want to try a trial run?”
“You’re basically a stranger,” Betty said. Her tone was clipped, and Julian suspected that Betty had plenty of reasons to be wary of strangers.
“How’d you meet your current roommate?” Julian asked, because he already intuited that the answer would tilt in his favor.
Betty pursed her lips. “Craigslist.”
“Betty, no!” Sybil said. “Your parents are okay with this? That doesn’t sound like a safe scenario at all.”
“My parents are dead,” Betty said flatly, and then they all looked a little apologetic. Sybil looked particularly mortified.
But Julian watched Betty slump against the back of the booth, her face downcast, her posture a curve. And though he didn’t say a word, the thing was, he was pretty sure that she was lying. It was a masterful performance, he thought, and he suspected they were in for an encore.
8
Night Three
Betty
Betty wasn’t lying.Mallory was a nightmare. She ate Betty’s yogurts. She had an absurd collection of cacti. She played weird bohemian music with an annoying bass that gave Betty a headache. She had very loud sex with her boyfriend at least twice a night, which was part of the reason Betty tried to accrue as many work shifts as the trust-fund diner owner would allow. Arguing with Mallory about any of the above meant drawing attention to herself, and Betty preferred to go unnoticed, to be as unintrusive as possible.
As a child, she had this down to an art.
It really wasn’t all that hard to go through life nearly invisible. She had an unmemorable face, average brown hair, average brown eyes, average though skinny in a malnourished way build, average height. When she’d bleached her hair blonde, she’d emerged from the bathroom to find Mallory’s boyfriend on the couch with one hand on the remote and one tucked under the waistband of his sweatpants, and he said, “Holy shit, Betty,you’re actually fucking hot,” and Betty wanted to spin on her toes and undo it.
She wasn’t interested in being hot. She was simply interested in getting by.
“I think this is a great idea,” Sybil was saying. “Betty, I know that we don’t know each other well, but I have a daughter—”
