6. Bryce #2
Portia shrugs, glancing down at her perfect nails.
“I’m just saying … sometimes, bad situations lead to the best endings.
Ma ybe you’re just one bad decision away from a whole new chapter of your life.
I mean, look at us. We’ve made a career out of poor choices, and here we are.
” She gestures dramatically to the bleak waiting room.
“Maybe living with a mysterious, six-packed, nerdy professor is exactly what you need right now.”
“Who said anything about a six-pack?”
“This is my fantasy. Work with me.”
I laugh, but it’s more out of nervous energy than anything else. “You know what, Portia? You’re ridiculous. But right now, I have no other choice. Nobody will even consider me with Bobo. I’m going to have to make this … situation work.”
“Exactly.” She leans back, resting her arms behind her head. “I mean, if the man’s living in your apartment, you might as well get something out of it. You’ll have to shag each other to keep warm at night.”
“It’s August.”
She wiggles her eyebrows like a dirty old man, unaffected by facts. “Darling, if you can’t have a little fun with a hunky professor, what’s the point of life?”
I groan, throwing my head back. “It’s never not a circus with you, huh?”
“Never.” She winks. “Give me three rings, the lion tamer, and a bearded lady.”
The door opens, and the casting director call out the final set of numbers, which include ours.
“Let’s do this,” Portia says. “Like Lin-Manuel Miranda sang to me during karaoke at my twenty-first birthday afterparty, ‘We are not throwing away our shot.’”
She stands, never letting go of my hand until I’m up, and we head into the studio together, determined to nail this audition.
I’m practically floating on air when I step through the apartment door.
Frank, the dance assistant, was totally into the vibe I brought to the audition.
He smiled, winked. Hell, he practically rammed his tongue down my throat when he informed me I was on his list for callbacks.
Not to yuck anyone’s yum, but daddies aren’t really my thing.
I mean, maybe, but Frank was more of a granddaddy.
Emerson’s presence on the couch, a reminder of my current predicament, immediately punctures my cheerful demeanor.
He’s scrolling on his phone, but his face is scrunched up like he’s just smelled the subway platform after a hungover bachelorette party has been through.
No matter what he says or does, I won’t let him bring me down from my callback high.
“Any luck finding a place?” he asks, glancing up from his phone with a hint of skepticism.
Guess he’s not one for beating around the bush.
“Yeah, still working on it.” I shrug off my bag and toss it over the back of a chair.
“It’s hard with Bobo, you know?” Hearing his name, my bestest boy trots over from the corner, where he wisely has been avoiding Emerson, and sits right on my foot.
“It’s not like I have many options for a roommate situation right now.
I asked Data and Marsh about crashing on their sofa, but three grown men and an enormous dog in their apartment wouldn’t be fair to the people beneath them. Or the wood flooring.”
I can see him trying to hold back a smirk. “So Bobo gets the couch?”
“I get the couch. Bobo can sleep on the floor. I’ll make a bed for him with the back cushions. We’ll make it work, right, boy? We always make it work.”
Bobo’s staring up at me, head back, tongue out, while I scratch behind his ears. Ah, to be blissfully ignorant to the struggles of your current tragic life situation. Remembering Portia’s words, I figure it’s time to take a cue from Bobo and use my cuteness to my advantage.
“And it’s only temporary, Emerson. I’ll find something. Eventually.”
My eyes widen, maybe a little too much, doing my best to pull off a sad puppy look. I glance down at Bobo, hoping he’ll catch my hint and join me, but nope—he still looks happy as a clam at our potential homelessness.
Emerson’s brow furrows, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his head. “Uh-huh. Just keep looking, eh?”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it. I’m not staying forever.
” My words probably sound a little too defensive, but there’s no way I’m going to admit I plan to stay.
That I don’t have anywhere else to go and no money to pay for anywhere even if I did.
That I don’t know how else to make this work because I don’t know how to make anything work—which is how I ended up in this position.
But then that warm feeling returns to my chest as I remember the one piece of positivity in my life today.
“Hey, guess what?”
Emerson’s head snaps up, his eyebrows lifting in a show of interest. “What?”
“I got a callback.”
The words tumble out of me like a tiny lifeline before I can stop them.
It’s the first bit of good news in what feels like forever.
Emerson’s expression shifts from annoyance to something softer.
He sits up a little straighter, nodding in approval.
“Really?” He adjusts the hearing aid behind his right ear and leans forward. “That’s great. For a play?”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Technically, it’s a musical— The Sound of Muscles . And it’s not like it’s the lead part or anything. They’re looking for a name to play Maria von Clapback. This is for the chorus. Ensemble. That sort of thing.”
“Wonderful.” Emerson lays his phone in his lap .
“But it’s something. It could be my big break. The callback itself feels like a win.”
“Good work,” he says, with actual sincerity.
I smile, but it feels odd, as if I shouldn’t be celebrating any successes, given my current ambiguous situation. But maybe, just maybe, I can convince him to let me stay. At least for the time being.
Being cautious to maintain my distance, I sit beside him, trying to keep as much space as possible between us. Bobo rests by my feet, his head on my lap, but he’s staring at Emerson.
“Thanks. I need to rehearse the choreo until it feels instinctive, like it’s in my blood. Fortunately, I have a few days to perfect it.”
Bobo shifts his enormous skull between us, and Emerson reaches for him, hesitating when his fingers approach mine. I move my hand away, and then he takes over. Bobo’s tongue falls out and his eyes roll back, clearly loving the attention from this new man. Traitor.
“And thanks again for understanding about the apartment,” I say. “I promise we’ll be no trouble. We’ll be quiet as two church mice. Right, Bobo?”
He’s too busy enjoying the attention from Emerson to acknowledge me, but I know he agrees with me. He always does.
“No worries.” He smiles and returns to scrolling on his phone.
But one hand remains on Bobo—right behind his ears. I gently rest my palm on the top of Bobo’s head, and, with mindful precision, Emerson and I avoid making contact while Bobo relishes a two-handed head massage from his dad and the new man who’s waltzed into our lives.