It’s Ian.
I’m taking care of personal things. Maybe soon I’ll have more to offer than what I did last night.
I drop the card into the envelope and seal it shut as the concierge tends to a family. By the time she’s done, I’ve had a full three minutes to rethink the whole thing. As she waves the family off, I grab the sealed envelope and jam it into the front pocket of my coat. I walk away, and behind me, the concierge calls out, “Sir, are you going to leave that with me?”
I lift my hand without turning.
Obviously not.
There’s no point in leaving her a one-way ticket to nowhere. Better to leave what happened where it is. A one-night stand, nothing more.
Sara
I posted an ad looking for a roommate and pray that the right person applies, because the roommate-from-hell nightmare has been nonstop. My first roommate was a guy who was always lazing around in the apartment, a fucking slob I had to pick up after who was always late paying the rent. I kicked him out. The next was a young student who came to NYU and left after one semester; she didn’t feel like it was the right fit and wanted a more traditional college, with a campus. Once again I was left paying the rent on my own and desperate to find the right roommate.
“Third time’s the charm,” I assure myself.
I reread the ad I placed two weeks ago, make sure it’s still there, and slap my laptop shut. Then I continue looking for gigs in the paper. I’ve always seen myself on Broadway, but I guess the universe didn’t see me there. I broke my ankle the first week I was rehearsing for my first big break. They gave me a pat on the back, a thank-you, and sent me on my way, with my cast, a boot, and my soul and heart crushed. Still having to cover the rent, I applied as a concierge to a trendy four-star hotel downtown that caters mostly to businessmen—and thankfully got the job.
Still, I can’t shake the feeling that I want to do something more with my life. Something I’m passionate about and also happen to be good at. Sometimes it’s hard to marry both, and you end up with a career you’re good at and a hobby you’re passionate about. I’ll take anything, but the restlessness I feel whenever I think of my old dreams of performing for an audience won’t let me stop looking.
Sighing, I set the paper aside, head to the bathroom to fill the tub, and once it’s ready, I dip my feet, and then the rest of me, inside. My mind wanders as I scrub myself. It’s strange—but every time I hop into the tub now, I think of him. Maybe because I desperately craved to slip into the tub the night he and I met. Or maybe because he’s always popping into my mind.
It happened over two weeks ago and I still haven’t been able to figure out his name. But that’s all right. I bet he can’t top it a second time. If I can’t find him, then I’d rather keep the memory.
I run the sponge over my body and the awakened slut in me clamors for more and more. I haven’t had sex since him. What’s the point? It won’t compare. It can’t. I’m saving myself for him again—but how on earth am I supposed to find him?
“Where are you, you sexy motherfucker?” I groan as I dip my finger under the water, down between my legs. Oh yes. I’ve made myself come thinking of him more times than I can count.
Maybe I should go out and have some actual sex. You know, with a partner.
But a replacement man holds no appeal, so I close my eyes and go for it. I’m not hurting anyone, and who knows? Maybe the fact that I want to see him again, so very desperately, will make him materialize at the hotel one of these days.
“Sara, the man in 1103 wants a reservation at—”
I nearly fall. “Excuse me?”
“Mr. Thackery. He wants a reservation at Mr. Chow.”
I glance at the man across the concierge desk from Carly. It’s not him.
Get a grip on yourself, Sara, I groan inwardly.
I exhale, shaking my head as I get to making the reservation. Some of our older guests don’t know about Open Table and keep making us do this for them. “Done. Eight thirty, party of four, sir. Would you like directions?”
After he nods, I pull out a map and explain the restaurant location while Carly tends to another guest.
“You need to get laid,” Robert, one of my coworkers, says when the guests leave.
I shake my head. “I need to dance—oops, hang on, my phone’s buzzing.” I get my phone out but don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”
“Hi, I just arrived in the city and saw the ad saying you’re looking for a roommate.” A pause. “Are you still looking?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Bryn. Heyworth. Can we meet today? I sort of… don’t have anywhere to sleep tonight and was hoping—”
“I’m heading out in a half hour. Meet me in Nolita in an hour.” I give her the address of my building. “We can talk and see if we’ll be a good fit.”
“On my way,” she chirps, and I hang up. Damn it. She’s not from here. Outsiders are a pain. More than a roommate, some want a tour guide, and I don’t have time to take anyone around the city. Still, when I wrap up, I head to my apartment and tell myself I can’t afford to be picky. Without a roommate, my salary, minus the rent, will leave little for food and nothing for fun.
When I arrive, it’s not hard to spot her. There’s a young woman, about my age, standing by the building entrance with four suitcases surrounding her and a laptop bag slung from her shoulder.
“Bryn?” I ask drolly, rising my eyebrows.
“Sara?”
I nod, almost laughing to myself as we eye each other. I’d planned to interview her, but there’s a puppy-dog look in her eyes that gets to me. God, I’m a sucker for lost ones. Plus, the last thing this girl looks like is a criminal. Nope. She’s fashionably dressed, wearing little makeup, with her soft chestnut hair held back, and I’m suddenly struck with the fact that she’s the one.
The one I’ve been waiting for.
“Well? What are you waiting for? Bring those up!” I tell her, motioning to the luggage and grabbing two of the bags for her.
“Does this mean I’m your new roommate?” She sounds incredulous, but ecstatic, as she grabs the bags and follows me into the building.
“No, this means I like to take in strays,” I say as we climb into the elevator. At her confused silence, I nudge her. “Of course you’re my roommate. We’ll talk a bit upstairs.”
“Oh.” She laughs, and we haul the suitcases out of the elevator and down the hall to my apartment.
Setting my cargo down, I open the door and motion her in. “Say hello to your new home.” I switch on the lights and help her roll the suitcases inside.
She glances around, a smile on her lips.
“It’s not a lot, but it’s comfortable and in a great location,” I say as I lead us to her room. “This’ll be your room. Did you bring your own sheets?”
I flip on the light switch, and she nods and glances at the stripped bed in the middle of the room.
“Great,” I say as I pull open the drapes. “The mattress could use a little vacuuming.” I move around the room, switching on the nightstand lamps and showing her the bathroom. “It’ll be nice not to sleep alone here tonight. I like the company,” I say as Bryn happily examines her room.
“Okay, so rules—” I clap and move onto the serious stuff. “If you bring guys, please lock the door and do it in your room. Don’t use my couch. Also, we split groceries and every other bill. Otherwise it’s a hassle to have to label everything in the fridge. As for cleaning, one of my roommates was a slob. Don’t be a slob.”
I head to the door, adding, “You clean your room. I clean mine. We alternate the common areas.”
“Sounds good. Hey, do you have an extra towel? I forgot mine.”
“Sure.” I bring her a towel and toss it into the air, and she catches it and carries it to the bathroom, where she neatly tucks it into the towel holder. “So where are you from?” I ask.
For the next hour, we get to know each other. I learn that Bryn is from O
hio. That she’s thirty, two years older than I am, and is in the city looking for her big break. Aren’t we all?
By the time she settles in and I cook us some pasta, I feel like I’ve known her forever.
“So this start-up. You design the clothes…” I ask over wine and my special spaghetti carbonara.
Bryn is midway through a forkful of pasta and makes an mmm sound as she slurps up the string that dangles from her lips. She laughs a little, pats her lips with a napkin, and sets it aside. “I design them and sometimes utilize old, vintage clothes and fabrics nobody uses, mixing it up with something fresh and new,” she says, eyeing her empty glass of wine mournfully. “I am not yet sure of how to market all this; I just like fashion but I’m not great at business—something I’d need to be good at in order to take it to the next level.”
“Which is why you want an investor?” I prod, pouring her more wine.
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help there.” I shake my head as I pour myself a second glass too. “I love the designs you just showed me on your phone, but I’m in much the same situation as you are.”
“You are?” Her eyes spark up in interest. “Don’t tell me you’re also a designer—”
“Oh no. Hell no.” I wave that off, then take a sip of my wine and set it aside. “I’m a concierge at the Four Seasons. But my real dream is to perform on Broadway. I’ve been a dancer my whole life. Even after I broke my ankle, I used to dance in my head for hours while I lay in my bed with a cast.” I smirk, remembering those rather hard and dreary days. To prove my point, I grab our now-empty plates and dance my way to the kitchen, hoisting the plates in the air as I do.
Her laugh makes me feel light and happy. “You’re good!” she says.
I can tell she means it. And something about the honest encouragement in her voice makes me feel more confident. As confident as I used to be when I was young and thought I’d be the queen of Broadway one day.
“Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” I assure her with a wink, twisting on the faucet and soaping up a sponge. I start scrubbing the plates, growing thoughtful.
“I’m sure you’ll find something. Have you been looking, at least?” Bryn cleans up the place settings and stores them in a kitchen drawer, then she comes up to help me dry the plates.
“I have,” I admit, but I grow thoughtful again, and hear myself admit something I’ve known for a while. “Though I suppose a part of me has given up before trying harder. Almost like my heart couldn’t bear another rejection.”
She dries the wineglasses artfully and then passes me the towel so I can dry my hands. “You shouldn’t decide for the world, Sara. The world is fickle and doesn’t even know what it wants. Isn’t it better to let others reject you than you yourself rejecting possibilities before even exploring them?” She frowns at me in question.
I think about it for a moment and shoot her a dry smile. “You’re right.” I lean back on the counter and regard her with new eyes. There’s so much more to Bryn Heyworth than meets the eye. Sure, she’s sweet and pretty, but she’s actually smart and driven, too. “Wow. You’re a good roomie. I didn’t know I’d have a therapist available twenty-four/seven when I took you in,” I say, nudging her as we head toward our rooms.
“Likewise. And hey, that’s what friends are for. And I do hope that we can be that. Friends,” she says hopefully, as we each turn to our bedroom door.
For some reason, after hearing about the dream start-up company she’s hunting funding for, I’m reminded of my own dreams. When I’m finally back in bed, I can’t seem to sleep. I paint my fingernails and toenails, and while waiting for my toenails to dry, I skim the ads for Broadway auditions on my laptop rather vigorously. Determined to find something.
I may have found the roommate of my dreams. Now if only I could find the job of my dreams, too, I’d be over the moon with happiness.
And if only I could find the guy I’m crushing after…
Don’t be greedy, Sara Davies. You cannot have it all.
But suddenly today a part of me wants to believe that I can.
Sara
“There’s another Suit, Sara.” Carly nudges me behind the concierge desk.
I glance at the door and watch the tall, blond businessman walk in.
“Nope. Sara likes the dark-haired ones,” Robert chimes in behind me.
“Ugh. You two.” I shake my head and try to ignore them, hating that they’ve noticed me ogling every dark-haired businessman that has walked into the lobby over the past month.
I’m a smart, young, good-looking, independent woman. I don’t need him.
“How’s the new roommate? Does she know about your crazy manhunt?” Carly asks.
“Okay, first of all, I am not holding a manhunt,” I tell Carly determinedly, rolling my eyes. “And she’s fabulous. The stars are definitely smiling down on me.” I wink at them both, feeling positive.
“Did you get the tickets for Wicked for room 511?” Robert asks as the phone rings.
I hand him the envelope with the tickets as he picks up. “Concierge, this is Robert speaking.” There’s silence before he slides his gaze in my direction. “Sara, it’s Walter.” Then Robert hangs up the phone.
“Huh? Walter Walter?” I ask, confused.
Walter never calls for me. I doubt he knows my name. He’s a short little man who likes to gather us all in weekly meetings to tell us how we’re doing and how we can improve our jobs, while he skims his eyes down our skirts. He’s only ever looked, but the girls and I still like to wear pants on the days he schedules the weekly meetings.
“That’s right. Walter, the hotel manager. He wants to talk to you. Now,” Robert adds.
“On my way.” I run my hands down my uniform and head to the private offices in a secluded section of the hotel’s lobby floor.
Honestly, this can’t be good. I’m trembling so hard I need to press my lips together as I rap on Walter’s door. His name—engraved on the plaque—stares ominously back at me before I hear his voice from within the office saying, “Come in.”
My hand twists the doorknob and I force myself to stride inside with confidence.
I spot Walter behind his desk and instantly think, I’m getting fired.
He’s not making eye contact.
He’s not looking at my skirt.
Instead, he stares at a paper as he says, “Take a seat.”
You are so fucking fired, Sara.
Or maybe I’m getting a promotion?
Maybe I’ve done an outstanding job and am getting an employee-of-the-month award.
No, dumbass. You got caught fucking a hotel guest in room 1103 and now you’re doomed.
Well, he was a hot hotel guest! a part of me chirps in.
That is irrelevant, my bitch of a conscience insists. You fucked him at the hotel and you got caught. Now you’ll not only never see the guy again and never know his name—you also won’t have a job.
My whole body feels as taut as a bowstring. I’m so tense, if I move too fast or too brusquely, I might break. God, please don’t let Walter know about room 1103, I think, as I sit down.
“We’re letting you go.”
I swallow.
Fuck.
He really fired me.
He actually just fired me.
I am being let go.
Out of a job.
Completely and utterly… fucked.
Oh… my… God.
It’s hard to respond to him. This is the second time I’ve been fired in my life. And I’ve only had two jobs. What does that say about me?
I suddenly don’t like myself very much. I feel like a worm. A worm who’s scared shitless now that I’m going to be all alone, in a big bad city, job hunting again.
“I… is it something I did?” I wring my hands.
“Not really. More like didn’t do. We don’t feel you’re as passionate as some of your coworkers. We’re also making cuts, and when it came down to it, I believe you
’re the weakest member of the team.” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and stares down at my file. “You can finish your shift and pick up your check on your way out.”
Wow. That’s it?
No “Have a good life, Sara.” Or “It was great working with you.”
No “Thanks for the tie you got me for my birthday.” Or, at the very least, “Sara, thanks for bringing us donuts out of the kindness of your heart all those times.”
Wow.
I’m surprised I manage to walk steadily to the door, because it feels as if my world is spinning like a carousel that is going faster and faster by the second. What am I going to do?
I stumble into the ladies’ room and quickly hide myself inside a stall. I exhale a very effusive “Fuck!” and put my hands on my temples and review my conversation with Walter. I’m an absolute wreck. My dad always said I’d turn out this way. My dad, who is divorcing my mom and seems to think we’re no good for him, was right; I’m apparently not good for anything.
Picking dancing as a career would lead me nowhere.
I’d end up with a dead-end job and no “decent” college degree to save me from it.
I groan and lean back against the stall door, blinking my eyes as I fight back tears. Maybe I deserved to be fired. Walter wasn’t wrong: I wasn’t in love with this job. I wanted to love it like I love dancing, but I don’t. It must have shown in my work.
I gather my shit and leave the restroom feeling drained and defeated, and like I’m the biggest loser on the planet. Don’t cry, I tell myself, as I head back to the concierge desk. You can cry all you want when you get back to your apartment. Focus on getting your shit and doing what’s left of your job until your time is up.
“What did Walter want?” Robert asks.
I swallow hard before squeaking out, “He fired me.”
“What? He fired you?” The flare in Robert’s eyes reveals his complete shock.
Carly doesn’t look nearly as surprised, though. “That’s sad… Oh, Sara, I’m so sorry,” she says.