The Last Phone Booth in Manhattan(26)
The living room had floor-to-ceiling like actual windows on three sides and a marble wood-burning fireplace I knew would make the perfect backdrop for a Christmas tree. French doors led to a large wraparound terrace with the most epic views of Central Park. And the cherry on top, a formal dining room with a table that wasn’t a bed with more than enough space to host friends and family for the holidays. It was perfect. Adam put in an all-cash, full-ask offer on the spot, and less than two months later, burly movers were carrying in sizable pieces from the Restoration Hardware spring catalog.
Anger I believed had dissolved over the past weeks stirred anew within me as thoughts of blame and hurt over the position in which Adam had me reawakened. He’d not only left me penniless, but I’d recently come to discover he’d forged my name on half a dozen leases. Even though I wasn’t implicated in the crime, my credit score would remain in the toilet until the whole mess got sorted out, leaving me with even fewer options.
Mindy crossed her arms over her chest in defeat. “I just don’t know what you want, Ms. Lawrence. I can’t fabricate an apartment tailored to your wish list and on your budget within the confines of your credit score out of thin air. It’s simply impossible.”
I pulled a chair out from the Murphy bed / kitchen table and, utterly overwhelmed, flopped my head onto the rubber coating of the thin air mattress and allowed my hands to dangle lifelessly by my sides. My voice came out garbled as I spoke into the plastic. “I’m sure you think I’m an idiot, right? Some gold digger who got what she deserved? But I loved Adam with my whole heart, and he duped me right along with everyone else. Worse than everyone else because I knew him. Or at least I thought I did.” I peeled my cheek off the bed and raised my head. “I won’t ask my parents for money. I have a job now, and I’m getting ready to start auditioning again . . . I mean, I hope to. But either way, I know I can make it on my own two feet. I just need a little help getting started.”
Mindy looked around the apartment like she was hoping someone would come and rescue her from awkwardly consoling this stranger, but with no one to help, she shifted her papers against her chest into one bent arm and extended a hand out to me, patting me stiffly on the shoulder. “Look, maybe take another glance at your finances and revise your list of nonnegotiables, and then reach back out to me. Until then, you may want to consider roommates. Just an idea.”
A roommate. Marisol’s face immediately popped into my brain. We’d shared an apartment in Brooklyn Heights the year between my breakup with Gabe and when I started dating Adam. Looking back, those were probably some of my favorite days I’d spent in New York. Though we were both single, we didn’t spend much time dating. We went to sample sales, ate our way through Smorgasburg, and kept a very serious scoring system on the best pizza in each borough. We spent hours wandering the Met and entered ourselves into the lotto for seats at all the biggest Broadway shows, actually managing to score front-row seats to Hamilton with the original cast (still one of my biggest claims to fame). We watched Sex and the City on a loop in our tiny living room and tried out every crazy new exercise fad—my favorite, the Bounce N’ Burn trampoline workout, hers, Turbo Aqua-Cycling.
Sometimes if we were feeling particularly in need of a good laugh, we’d take an improv class at this small underground theater in Williamsburg. Marisol had absolutely no background in performing, but that never stopped her. In fact, even though it was completely out of her wheelhouse, somehow she always came up with the funniest, most clever material—the best lines, the most ridiculous facial expressions. It was amazing to watch her be so uninhibited and confident in everything she did. I admired that most about her. Maybe that was why it’d always stood out to me as so remarkable?
A roommate was a good idea, actually. It would help a lot with rent and offset some other expenses too, and considering my rapidly depleting savings, it seemed to be the soundest option. And who knows, maybe it would even be fun?
Mindy lowered the kitchen blinds and turned to me. “Can you close the bed-table back up again? I have another showing in an hour.”
And with that, Mindy turned on her Gucci loafers, waited for me to shove the mattress back in the closet, and ushered me out the front door, closing it firmly behind her as we started our epic trek back down the nine flights to ground level.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, Charlie waved me in to Mimi’s for my first day back at work with a warm and welcoming smile and handed me my old name tag.
I fastened it to my shirt. “Where’d you even find this?”
“Name tag graveyard. We hold on to them in case the person hits it big one day.”
“Orrrrrr comes crawling back after because she’s desperate and destitute,” I teased.
“Well, tom-A-to, tom-AH-to. We don’t judge here at Mimi’s Shooting Star Diner,” he remarked with a snicker. “Go put your coat away, grab a copy of today’s set list off the counter, and meet me in the back.”
I followed him into the long hallway leading to the kitchen, taking a moment’s pause in front of the audition-call bulletin board that had been a well-maintained staple of the diner dating back to even before my earlier days working there. I scanned it, checking for any upcoming non-equity calls, when Charlie realized I was no longer trailing behind him and doubled back.
“Anything catching your eye?” he asked.