Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“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 Ohio. 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.