Chapter 9
Bea
I pace my shoebox apartment with bare feet shuffling against warped linoleum, feeling like a hamster trapped in a wheel that’s going nowhere.
It’s late September, the air outside crisp with the promise of fall and pumpkin blahttes around every corner, but in here, it’s stale, heavy with the weight of my slim options.
This place is all I can afford—a tiny cave with a leaky ceiling, a hissing radiator from the last century, and neighbors whose every sneeze, moan, and argument bleeds through the paper-thin walls. A tall window with brown grills provides the only rays of sunshine around here.
A queen mattress on a creaky platform bed, a fold-down table barely big enough for a plate, a kitchenette with a temperamental stove that always wins, and two mismatched forks that I wield like weapons of freedom.
And despite all the mismatch, no one tells me how to dress or sit, which fork—out of the two I own—to use. No one’s here to humiliate me for slouching or having a hair out of place. This is mine, my slice of independence, and it’s currently hanging by a thread.
My starving bank account is a ticking bomb, and I’m scrambling to find a job that pays enough to keep me here, away from my parents’ suffocating control. To be honest, finding a job is not the problem. Keeping one is.
My head throbs from overthinking—waitressing gigs that fired me for mouthing off, retail jobs that laughed at my resume, even a barista stint that ended when I spilled espresso on a customer’s laptop.
I’ve tried everything, but New York is a beast that doesn’t like me as much as I hoped, and I’m running out of moves.
The jarring sound of a doorbell snaps me out of my spiral.
I’m not expecting anyone, so I grab the cheap, ten-dollar frying pan from the secondhand store and wield it as a weapon.
It’s no cast iron, but it’ll do some damage if I try hard enough.
Security in this building is a joke—the first-floor lock is always busted, and I’m sure I saw a drug deal happening in the staircase this morning.
Breathing tightly, I peek through the peephole with a thumping heart, ready to swing the pan when I see Maeve and Martin. Rolling my eyes with irritation at my unexpected guests and lowering the pan, I swing the door open.
“Hey, Bea,” Maeve exclaims in a bright voice as she envelops me in a sudden hug, her warmth catching me off guard. I’m still not used to her being so touchy, not after the cold, polished distance of our upbringing.
“Hey,” I murmur, hugging her back stiffly, not knowing what to do with my arms. “Hey, Martin,” I add, nodding to the man behind her who’s leaning on the doorframe of my still open door.
“Hey, girl. What’s up with the pan?” Martin asks with a quirked brow, pointing at my makeshift weapon.
I give it a playful swing. “My weapon of choice.”
His forehead scrunches with mock disgust. “We gotta find you something… classier. It’s not fit for a Wrong girl.”
“My pan’s just fine,” I retort, placing it on the counter with a clatter, barely needing to move in this cramped space. I can reach practically everything in my apartment standing in one spot—a vivid reminder that freedom comes with a price.
They’ve been here multiple times and know the main rule, so they kick off their shoes and head to the bed which is the only real seating in here.
Martin flops onto his stomach, grabbing a pillow and propping it under his chin, his deep blue pants sliding up to reveal orange socks with multicolored autumn leaves and a raccoon’s face popping out of them.
A quirky splash of color that makes me smile despite myself.
His endless supply of wild socks is a mystery I don’t bother solving.
Maeve leans against the wall, crisscrossing her legs, her edgy sweater and jeans a contrast to the polished Wrong daughter I grew up with.
I turn to fill the coffee maker with water. Its gurgle fills the quiet, and said quiet seems very heavy in such a small space with so many people.
It’s past nine p.m., but I know they’re here to stay for a while. Both of them have giant apartments, and it’s a mystery to me why we always hang out at my place, which is totally unfit for guests.
“How did Ezra let you out this late?” I ask Maeve, pulling three mismatched mugs from the cupboard.
“They’re working on some big, new project, so I’m on my own,” she replies, lifting her feet up and shaking them. She was probably jogging—an old habit of hers she picked back up recently.
I raise a brow, turning to Martin. “And how’d he let you go then?”
“Always one call away,” he answers with a grin, shaking his phone in the air.
Another doorbell buzz startles me, nearly making me drop the pot. “Who’s that?” I ask in a sharp voice.
Martin jumps up, bounding to the door. “Food. I’m starving,” he declares with rather infectious enthusiasm. It’s his unique gift: everything he says sounds exciting.
I frown. “Check the peephole first,” I urge, my fingers gripping the counter. “This isn’t your fancy building, Martin. It’s not safe.”
He waves me off, swinging the door open without a glance, nearly giving me a heart attack. Pulling cash from his slim, demure wallet, he hands it to the delivery guy and leans against the doorframe.
“Thanks, doll,” he murmurs with a flirty sweetness, lingering by the door even after the guy turns to walk down the hallway.
When he closes the door, I raise my brows. “Really?”
“What?” He shrugs with a playful grin. “He was cute.”
“I thought you were dating someone,” I say, my tone softens when I catch a flicker of hurt in his eyes.
“Last month,” he replies, waving it off, but his smile looks strained. “Didn’t work out.”
“Sorry,” I whisper gently.
He brushes it off, bringing the food to the counter, crowding the tiny space even more. “All the more reason for the best comfort food ever,” he announces, unpacking the bags.
“It’s not pizza,” Maeve grumbles in a grouchy voice as she peers over.
“Chinese,” Martin counters, tossing her a box.
“Crab rangoon?” I ask hopefully while my stomach lets out a loud growl.
“Who do you take me for?” he retorts, pretending to be offended while he pushes a white box into my hands.
“Yes, Martin! You’re a god,” I exclaim, diving into the box in search of the crab-filled goodness.
“So I’ve been told,” he quips, back to his usual cheerful self.
We settle on the bed, arranging trays, towels, and paper plates over the covers so my only sleeping arrangement won’t get nasty.
“So, why are you here?” I ask in a casual voice. There’s no way they just came here to hang out and bring food. They are totally buttering me up for a serious conversation.
“To check on you after you lost your last job,” Maeve replies with a full mouth while her soft, concerned eyes are trained on my face. “How’re you holding up? Financially, I mean,” she adds carefully. “You know I can help if you’re struggling.”
“No,” I stop her with a firm voice, shaking my head for good measure. “Thanks, Mae, but I’m good.”
She exchanges a doubtful glance with Martin, her brows growing closer together with every passing second. They are at the point of a monobrow, one might say, and if she doesn’t stop now, they might never separate again.
“I mean it, Mae,” I insist in a sharper voice, doubling down the defense. “I’m okay.”
“You just lost your waitressing job,” she points out, her tone gentle but pressing.
“My main job,” I correct in a tight voice, wiping my hands on a towel. “I still have my side gig.”
“Your virtual assistant job barely pays,” she says while her eyes search mine.
“It got me here, away from Mom and Dad,” I retort, a bit offended. Yes, it got me out from under my parents’ thumb, but it took me a couple years of small paychecks to save enough to leave them. I hoped I’d find something better by now, but it’s been almost a year, and I’m running low.
Maeve’s hand lands on my knee with a gentle squeeze. “I know. And I’m proud of you,” she says while her understanding eyes remain on my face. No one has told me that before. No one.
My throat tightens, her words hitting a nerve I don’t want to acknowledge right now.
“That makes one of us,” I mutter, looking away, my fingers picking at the edge of a plate.
“What’s your plan now?” she asks, taking a bite of a deep-fried shrimp.
I shrug nonchalantly, hoping we drop this conversation ASAP because it’s bringing me even more down than I was before their sudden arrival. “Try another waitressing job, I guess.”
“You don’t last at those,” she chuckles. “Neither of us do. It’s not in our blood.”
“Because you both can’t keep your mouths shut to save your lives,” Martin teases, pointing a chopstick at us.
“Have you ever tried?” I shoot back, feeling a small smile tugging at my lips.
He pauses mid-chew. “You got me there.”
“That’s why I loved being a virtual assistant,” I begin explaining, leaning forward.
“No office, no small talk, just business. I’m good at it—organizing chaos, meeting impossible demands.
It’s satisfying, knowing I can pull off what others can’t.
Makes me proud. But my agency is garbage.
They give me the worst jobs, saving the good ones for their favorites. ”
Martin’s eyes widen, his chopsticks freezing. “Wait a second,” he exclaims, grabbing a napkin and chewing fast. “One of my exes manages a top temp agency. HireForMore. You know it?”
I nearly choke on a wonton. “Yeah, but they rejected me for lack of experience. Or rather, my bad experience,” I add in frustration, recalling the conversation I had with their hiring manager who pretty much laughed in my face.
“How do people get experience when everyone wants fifty years of it in a twenty-something kid?” Maeve cries out dramatically with a rising voice and flailing hands.
Martin presses a finger to her forehead. “Don’t stress yourself—you’ll get wrinkles. And you are too young for Botox, darling.”
“Was the breakup bad? Would he still be willing to do you a favor?” I ask cautiously, wary of Martin’s sudden enthusiasm.
His face scrunches, but his eyes sparkle. “The breakup was bad, but the sex was good,” he quips with a mischievous grin. “I’ll call him tonight.”
“Tonight?” Maeve’s brow furrows. “Not better in the morning?”
“Some people are better persuaded under the dome of darkness,” he replies, winking as he grabs his phone and starts typing furiously.
His phone pings, and his eyes light up. A spreading triumphant grin must mean he just got some good news for me. A few quick exchanges, and he raises a fist.
“I gave him your number. He’ll send instructions soon,” he announces, brimming with pride.
My phone buzzes a moment later—an unknown number. I open the message with my heart in my throat. “It’s tomorrow! Eight a.m.!”
“There you go. You’re welcome,” Martin says, leaning back with a smug grin.
“Thank you!” I cry, diving across the bed, knocking him and Maeve over in a clumsy hug, my heart pounding with gratitude I don’t know how to express. “Thank you, Martin!”
We chat for another hour about Martin’s breakup and Maeve’s new fashion studio.
My mood couldn’t be higher. Living in New York is expensive, even in a shoebox like mine.
And I wouldn’t be able to afford it if I didn’t find a new job.
A well-paying job. Being temp has its own cons, meaning you can be thrown anywhere without notice, but the pay in popular agencies is usually good.
And I need good pay like I need air in this moment, and I’ll do anything as long as it lets me stay in New York close to my sister.