“You can’t talk to him like that.” Her voice is low, her gaze sharp. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check whether anyone is watching, then turns back to me. “I got you this opportunity because we’re roommates and you’re good at makeup, but if you fuck this up, Randall won’t ever work with me again.”
I almost scoff when I realize she’s being serious. I think back over the last hour. How horrible he’s been to everyone on this shoot. The cutting things he’s said to the models are worse than anything I’ve ever witnessed. “He’s not a nice person.”
She rears back, her eyes wide and blinking. “Nice?” She laughs, but it’s a mean sound. “You think anyone gets anywhere by being nice? This is the fashion jungle, Rae. Eat or be eaten. At your age, you should already know that.” She pulls out her phone and starts scrolling; a dismissal.
I’ve never really liked Andrea. She’s catty, and I’ve seen it time and time again. But after working under these conditions for the past eight hours, my tolerance is at an all-time low, and I actually hate her. This shoot was supposed to wrap up hours ago. I should be home right now, maybe enjoying a nap before going out with Jenni. But instead, the photographer threw a tantrum for the third time today and I’m left waiting—without lunch or snacks. But I refuse to cause a scene or get into it with her. “Do you know what time we’ll be done?”
She looks around, and shrugs before going back to her phone. “I don’t know.”
“Okay.” It’s really difficult to bite my tongue. I press a smile onto my lips. “I’m going to walk over to that Starbucks. Do you mind watching my stuff?”
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes, and turns her back. On me. On my makeup supplies.
Whatever. I need something to eat and a few sacred minutes of air conditioning. I grab my wallet and walk across the busy crosswalk to the promised land. Since I’m still strapped for cash, I go with a sandwich, trenta water, and venti black coffee.
Settling into a cushioned seat, I relax for the first time all day. Munching on food, I scroll through my phone and take in photos of my brother and his husband at a music festival. A surge of happiness at seeing their smiling faces is doused by loneliness. I’d give almost anything to be back in Chicago for the weekend with people who actually care about me. But it’s not good to wish for things I can’t have. I close out of the app, but before I tuck my phone back in my purse my finger hovers over the texting icon.
I wonder what Jude’s doing. I almost text him to ask, which is an insane thought. He’s not a friend. We hardly know each other. Yet our interactions have been the closest to what I miss having back in Chicago.
Putting my phone away, I finish my sandwich and coffee, then drag my ass out of the coffee shop. Back to work I go. We’ve got to be close to wrap; the sun will be setting soon. I can deal with Randall and the ride back with Andrea, though a few more hours and it’ll go down as the absolute worst day of my life. The sun hits my skin and I sweat while waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk. My gaze travels back to the parking lot as I sip my ice water. What the—?
The tent is gone. The cars are gone. Andrea is gone.
I blink, wishing and willing my eyesight to be failing. But no, in the lot where we’ve been slaving to a psycho photographer’s whims all day is nothing more than a stack of crates. My makeup!
The light changes and I race across the street at the first glimpse of green.
“Shit. Shit. Shit,” I murmur under my breath, my gaze darting around in search of some clue as to what the fuck happened. I was only gone a few minutes. Fifteen tops! Where the hell is my roommate? I reach my makeup and exhale a little sigh of relief that everything seems to be in order. I’m already down a car; if I lose my supplies, I’m screwed.
Where the hell is Andrea? My fingers shake as I pull out my cell, expecting a missed call or message, something, but find nothing. I’m so angry, I could scream, but instead I touch her name in my contacts list. It rings once before going to voicemail. My stomach clenches with apprehension. She’s my ride home. We’re hours from the apartment. Over one hundred miles. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity. Fuck.
Me: Where are you?
I pace while I wait for her reply, tears filling my eyes even as I blink them back.
Andrea: Hey, went to grab dinner and drinks with friends. Shoot’s canceled.
Laughter. Manic and unhinged bubbles from my lips.
Me: And you just left? I asked you to watch my stuff.
Andrea: I didn’t know how long you’d be. Someone said they’d stay until you showed.
My pulse races, irritation growing into full-blown anger. How could she just leave? What kind of person does that?
Me: I was right across the street.
Me: You could have called.
Andrea: Sorry.
But she’s not sorry at all. It’s clear by her actions. And I just got stiffed for a full day’s work. Damn it! What a fucking waste of a day.
I grate my teeth, ready to scream, or cry, but attempting to calm down. As much as I hate Andrea right now, I need the ride back to LA. Sucking up my pride, I shoot off one more text.
Me: What time are you coming back to get me?
Andrea: I’m staying the night in San Diego with friends. Sorry.
“Fuck!” I scream to the empty parking lot. Great. Just fucking great. Not only has today been a complete waste, but now I’m out an Uber ride back.
