I am happy for my nicest roommate. But damn, I sure could use a sign myself. I stand from the barstool and take my dish to the sink. A few dirty saucepans litter the stove top. “I’ll clean up.”
“Oh, you don’t have to.” Jenni practically skips to my side, setting her plate atop mine in the sink. She moves to my right as I start to scrub and rinse the dishes, holding out her hand with a clean dishtowel in the other. “Here. I’ll dry.”
We work in companionable silence, music from her small speaker filling the space. This is the most time I’ve spent with Jenni, or any of my roommates. It reminds me of living back in Chicago. Dinners with my brother and his husband, or at Mia and Matt’s. Back when my friends were a train stop away. Where there was always an ear to listen, a shoulder to lean on, a girlfriend to grab drinks with. I’ve been so consumed with working in the three months I’ve been here, I never allow myself to realize just how lonely I am. Rinsing the last suds off a final dish, I swallow back the urge to cry.
“Hey, so like, I know you’re probably busy, but maybe would you want to go out and celebrate with me this weekend?” Jenni takes the dish from my hand to dry. If she notices me blinking back tears of homesickness, she doesn’t let on. “I’m getting together with some friends Saturday night. We’re gonna hit up a club. Have a few drinks. Nothing crazy or anything, just a good time.”
I open my mouth to answer, but realize if I try to talk I’ll probably cry. I haven’t been asked to go out with any of my roommates since moving here. Not socially. Once they discovered I did professional makeup I was invited to help them get ready, or hired for a few small gigs. But this, this is just Jenni being kind because she wants to.
She must read my hesitation as disinterest. “I know you work a lot, and like, my friends are way younger so I totally understand if you don’t want to hang with us, or it’s not your—.”
“No,” I interrupt. “I would love to go out. Thank you for asking.”
She grins, placing the last of the dishes into the cabinet. “Cool. I’ll head out sometime after eight. Nothing too extravagant. A little black dress, and well, I don’t have to help you with hair and makeup.” She laughs lightly. “My friend knows the bouncers for a few clubs, so we won’t have to pay cover.”
“Cool.” I force a natural smile. Crap. I didn’t even consider the expense. If I don’t book more work, I won’t have much in my bank account for a night out. Even if I do, it’ll be cutting it close. But I can’t turn her down. I am in desperate need of socialization and fun. I’ll eat beforehand, and I can sip on water instead of drinking. I need this. All work and no play makes me a very sad girl. I wipe down the counter and sink, then straighten the hand towel. “I’ll be ready. I’m working a shoot that day with Andrea, but we should be back way before that.”
“Awesome. Okay, well, I’m gonna memorize lines and turn in.” She claps and bounces on the balls of her feet.
I can’t help but grin. “Thanks again for dinner.”
“No problem, roomie. Just call me Chef Ramsey.” She flashes another smile and I see how much Hollywood is going to love her. She has one of those genuine smiles. A confidence that isn’t faked. Her energy is addictive.
I walk back to my room to grab my bathroom caddy. I should turn in as well. Attempt a few hours of sleep before the late-night crowd comes back from late shifts at their respective serving jobs. But I’ll wash my face and brush my teeth before collapsing in bed.
The buzz of an incoming phone notification catches my attention. By the rhythmic beat I can tell it’s a phone call and not a text. The only calls I ever receive are from potential clients or my family back home. I drop all my stuff without making a mess and dive across my bed before the call goes to voicemail. “Hello?” I say, slightly out of breath.
“Is this Rachel Delgado?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Jake Ryan and I’m one of the production managers for Americana Studios,” he says, and I nod even though he can’t see. “I’m looking at your work right now. Very impressive. I also like your online presence.” He hums appreciatively.
My stomach flutters with anticipation. Is this a joke? I search my memory for a Jake Ryan but come up blank. Why is he calling, and more importantly, where did he get my number?
“You come highly recommended.”
Right. This is some sort of follow-up satisfaction survey. God, I hope I’m not in trouble for anything. I was very careful to follow all the rules in my contract, and used my pass and everything. My pass. Shit. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone on set, which I didn’t, but I did allow Jude to borrow my parking clearance pass to get inside the security gate. I swallow, hoping and praying this mistake doesn’t blacklist me from ever working on Americana’s lots for future projects. “Yes, I worked on The Sentencing. We wrapped production today.” If need be, I am prepared to apologize, grovel, and beg for forgiveness.
“That’s right. Yes.” He clears his throat. “I’m gonna get down to the reason for my call. I’m short a makeup artist on one of our feature films. It’s a six-week contract, six days a
