It might be worth it…
Sighing, I slide them back into my wallet.
If I can make this money last until I get paid on Thursday, ace at least five auditions and land three paying roles between now and December, and ace my Drama final for a chance at an understudy program—I can…
I stop myself from finishing that thought.
I’ve officially crossed into the land of delusions, and I need to make a hard turn back into reality.
I’m standing in my final building of the night, a place that reads “Ate and Ass,” a supposed law firm that sits on the edge of the Hudson River.
“Hey,Cinderella!” My manager yells from down the hall.
“Yes, Mr. Brice?”
“How are you going to clean the floors without moving the fucking mop?” He gestures for me to push it. “You only get six hours per shift before the suits start trickling in!”
“Yes, sir.” I bite my tongue and stick the mop into fresh water before pressing it against the marble.
I’m still convinced the temp agency assigned me to janitorial work as a joke or a way to make me quit, but thirty bucks an hour to clean floors and empty trash is exactly the type of mind-numbing work I needed.
I turn up the volume on my earbuds and make my way down the east wing.
As I’m wiping down framed newspaper clippings, my phone vibrates against my pocket.
Unknown number.
I send it to voicemail.
Seconds later, it sounds again.
I ignore it once more.
When it buzzes the third time, I notice it’s not a phone call, but a new text message.
555-0978
It’s Jameson. Pick up your phone.
I’m working. I’ll pass.
Working to pay back Chanel for the shoes you stole or the loan company for the money you can’t pay back?
I gasp and immediately call him.
“Yes?” he answers before the line can even ring.
“You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” I say. “And I could’ve sworn you were the one saying we didn’t need to talk anymore.”
“I changed my mind,” he says. “It’s not every day I meet someone with such flawed judgment in life. I’m intrigued.”
I’m tempted to hang up and block this man forever, but I can’t deny that I’ve spent the past several nights wishing he would call. Wanting to see if I could get a second dose of feeling something other than hopelessness.
“Intrigued aboutwhat?” I ask.
“Well, for one, I’d like to know how someone who works in marketing and can afford to live in lower Manhattan would ever need to steal shoes... Why?”
“I was planning to return them at the end of this month…”
