6. Bryce
SIX
brYCE
I didn’t know that Gucci made leotards until I met Portia Black, my best friend and partner in the trenches of the Broadway audition scene.
“I want to get your opinion on something,” Portia says in her delightful British accent.
She sits across from me in the aforementioned designer leotard, our legs spread and feet touching as we prepare in the waiting area.
She pulls my arms to stretch my back, and in ten seconds, I’ll return the favor.
“Don’t get veneers,” I tell her. Half her charm is in her perfectly imperfect smile.
“No, it’s not that … this time. But I might have us circle back.
I’m thinking of quitting the crushing world of dancing and starting my own makeup line.
” She lets go of my hands and rubs hers together.
“I’m going to call my line of cosmetics Black Face.
” She gestures to an imaginary sign in the air. “What do you think?”
I can hear the think pieces being written. “Um … maybe not?”
“No?” She pouts her bottom lip. “My cosmetics could bring a positive connotation to the term, dontcha think?”
“I really, really don’t.” I pull her toward me .
“It’s okay. I’m not that into starting a makeup line. Father says I need to find a more successful career path. He’s threatening to stop paying my rent.”
Portia’s father has made this threat several times before, and it never sticks. It’s practically a punchline at this point. “Would he really kick you out on the street?”
“Worse. A studio in Jersey City . I didn’t think that was even a real place until he showed me on a map.” She sits up and pulls my arms toward me, giving me a much-needed stretch in my back. “I told him I can’t give up my dream. We’re artists! The struggle is what gives us strength!”
She cups my hands in hers to form an oversized solidarity fist.
“That’s us. Struggling artists,” I say flatly. I love Portia. She’s merely afflicted with the same obliviousness that rich kids and nepo babies have, the kind that assures them they’ve hustled for everything they have and that the world runs on meritocracy.
Portia’s bazillionare parents own a slew of upscale boutique laundromats all over the city.
They’ve been able to buy her everything except a career on Broadway.
We bonded on the audition circuit because we’re both outsiders used to eyerolls from casting directors.
And despite being a quasi-socialite, Portia doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body.
The casting director enters the room and calls out numbers corresponding to auditioners. She leads them into a separate space where they’ll have a few minutes to prove themselves to the director. My heart thumps as each number is called.
I’m determined to get a paying gig. Be a real dancer in a real show.
My time will come—I know it. I’ve been putting in the hours, the sweat, the pain, and even the doubts, but I can feel it building inside me, like I’m just one step away from that breakthrough.
I can’t let myself give up now—not when I’ve come this far .
A familiar foe named Whitney with a tight bun and the inability to form a genuine smile sashays by us.
“Portia, still at it? Haven’t enough casting directors told you no yet? You know, you need actual talent to dance.” Whitney checks out her flamingo-like body in the mirror. “Remember during the school talent show when you fell off the stage? I hope that doesn’t happen here.”
“Thanks for the tip, Whitney,” Portia says coolly, her cheeks burning red.
“Speaking of tips, you might want to schedule a manicure soon, sweetheart.” Whitney shoots a venomous wink Portia’s way and flutters off.
Yes, even in a fancy boarding school with the spawn of the insanely wealthy, kids can be bullied. Money can’t heal all wounds. I think that’s also why Portia and I bonded. Income levels aside, our childhoods weren’t so dissimilar.
I lodge double middle fingers at her back which gets a laugh from Portia.
“One day, I’m going to get cast in a show over her, and the victory will be oh so sweet,” Portia says, glaring at her nemesis. She shakes her head, refusing to let Whitney take up room. “One more good stretch.”
She pulls my arms, and I wince. A stubborn muscle in my lower back remains stiff.
“You okay, love?”
“Yeah. My back is tight from sleeping on the couch.”
“Why are you sleeping on the sofa? Did you and Anthony get in a fight?”
The only thing more painful than a horrific breakup is having to retell the story of said horrific breakup to your friends and family. I’d been avoiding sharing the news with Portia, but perhaps focusing on emotional pain can loosen up the physical aches.
I unload about the last few days, and the stress lifts off my shoulders a tad. Portia’s big warm eyes radiate kindness and understanding as she takes it all in.
“Wait, you have a hot professor staying with you?”
“Hot? Who said he was hot?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow as I twist my body to stretch deeper, feeling the familiar ache in my legs. Portia gives me her I-know-something-you-don’t smirk. She’s always one step ahead.
“Don’t play coy. I saw your face when you mentioned his name.” My quads ache as she leans back, her leggings stretched just a little too tight—of course she pulls it off effortlessly. “Emerson. You were practically drooling.”
I snort. “First of all, I was not drooling. Second, he’s not staying with me. He literally stormed into my life, taking over my apartment and making an already difficult situation harder.”
“Right, dumped by the actor. Anthony was really hot. Couldn’t solve two plus two with a calculator, but with that face and body, who needs mathematical ability?”
“Not helping.” I pull a little harder, hoping she really feels it. “It’s not like I asked to be dumped and have my apartment sublet from under me.”
“Anthony’s apartment.” She smiles. “According to you.”
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Yours, sweetie. Always, yours,” she purrs in that way people with money and no true troubles do. “No luck finding anything?”
I shake my head, grimacing. “Yeah. I’ve been going nuts searching for a place. Apparently, a one-hundred-and-twenty-pound dog is a deal breaker for most landlords in the city.”
“I could ask my father? He may know of a vacancy in one of the laundry parlor buildings.”
“Really?” My heart skips a beat at the thought of living in one of the Black Inc. luxury properties.
“I can ask. Oh wait, Velvet Spin properties are smoke, child, and pet free,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “ No offense to your mutt. Or tiny humans.” She shrugs. “Plus, there’s that pesky income requirement. You make over two hundred thousand a year, right?”
My head drops, shaking at her. “Portia, you go to every failed audition with me. Earn the same as I do at the Met. You know I hardly have fifty bucks in my checking account.”
“That’s checking. What other assets do you have? Savings account? IRA? After-tax brokerage?”
“Those are all different things? I have some loose change in a Carly Rae Jepsen shot glass?”
Portia may be clueless about certain areas of life but definitely not money. She learned the basics of wealth creation alongside her ABCs.
“I’ll figure something out,” I say, but even I don’t believe myself.
“I know you will. But more importantly, is Emerson hot hot or just tall, dark, and mysterious hot? Because you know, I could totally help you with that.”
I sigh and finally release the stretch, sitting up. “Emerson’s just … Emerson. He’s not dark at all. Quite tall, though. Big. Like one of those football players who throw people around. Not that I follow sportsball.”
“Honey, you follow anything with balls.”
We share a quick glance, and then a sharp laugh escapes our lips. Even in my darkest hour, Portia’s humor, as bright and unexpected as a sudden burst of sunlight, manages to bring a smile to my face. The sound of her delusional laughter comforts me.
“Anyway, he’s not my type.”
“A tall, hunky football player who could throw you around isn’t your type?” She raises an eyebrow. “Sure, Jan.”
The truth is, there’s something about Emerson that keeps messing with my head. He’s brooding and intense, and I get the sense he’s hiding something. But right now, he wants me out of his apartment.
The casting director comes out again and calls a new set of numbers. More dancers who aren’t us stand and then enter the other room, including Whitney. She gives Portia a diabolical wave.
“One day, your victory will come.” I lean in and put a hand on Portia’s shoulder. “And I once danced in a chorus with her, and she was ripping ass the entire time. It was noxious. Like, girl, lay off the Luna bars.”
Portia throws her head back and unleashes a pure, cackling laugh so infectious I find myself joining in. Other dancers around us glare, like we’re two kids in the back of class causing a ruckus.
She makes a sudden gasping noise. “Wait a second, I’ve got it.”
“Got what?” I raise my head, hoping for a crumb of hope.
“A solution to your sudden, unwanted, forced proximity living situation.”
My eyes widen, and I dip my chin slightly, waiting for my friend with the three-hundred-dollar tights to fix my life.
“The two of you—Emerson and you—share your little bachelor pad. Think of the drama! The tension! It’s like a reality show waiting to happen.
” Her face lights up like a Christmas tree, never a good sign.
“Wait, we could hire a film crew. Capture every conversation and quarrel. This could be a real moneymaker. Bravo would eat this up. I see a multi-season arc. Maybe I should be a reality show producer. I think I’d have a knack for it. ”
I frown. “How generous of you. But I’m not searching for any more drama. I have enough of it just dealing with my life. My heart was broken two days ago. And now I’ve got a mysterious hot guy squatting in my apartment.”
“So you do think he’s hot?”
I cock my head and sigh.