She mailed a check this afternoon to the absentee landlord, accompanied by an apologetic note explaining she’d send the rest of the money as soon as she has it. She came home from the post office to a nasty voice mail he’d left her.
She didn’t listen to the whole thing, but she got the gist: pay up or get out.
Luckily, he doesn’t have her cell phone number. The incoming call is from Dana, her former roommate and the reason Julia is in this mess in the first place, having moved in with her boyfriend in Brooklyn last month.
“Dude,” Dana says, “what are you doing?”
“The only thing I can afford to do since you stuck me for the December rent on this place: nothing.”
“I gave you notice!”
“A month.”
“That’s long enough to find a new roommate.”
“In a tiny studio? No one I know was looking to move, and I’m not about to share three hundred square feet with a total stranger,” Julia reminds her. They’ve been over this before. “Nothing against Alex, but I’m kind of hoping you’re calling to tell me that you guys broke up and you’re moving back in with me?”
“I’m calling to tell you that Alex’s band just got a last--minute gig at this club in Williamsburg. They go on at around one--fifteen. They’re getting paid in free drinks, me included, and you can come as my guest.”
“I don’t know . . . the weather’s crappy.” She goes to the window and looks out.
Her fourth--floor walkup overlooks the Con Edison facility directly across the street, with its barbed wire–topped chain link fence. Rain is coming down in sheets, splashing into a gutter river, and the block is deserted.
“Don’t be lame, Jules,” Dana says. “Come on.”
“It’s a fifteen--minute walk to the subway from here.”
“So take a cab.”
“There are no cabs, and I’m broke, remember?”
“Okay, but you have a MetroCard, so grab an umbrella and get your ass moving. Alex’s friend Marc will be there. Remember him from the Halloween party?”
Julia remembers him. Tall, dark--haired, bearded, tattooed. Her type—-unlike her ex--boyfriend, a pasty banker who considered her songwriting career a little hobby.
Mind made up, she arranges to meet Dana. She hangs up and quickly changes into jeans, boots, and a V--necked black sweater that just barely reveals the top of her own tattoo. It’s a ladybug. As soon as she saves up enough money, she’s going to get another, maybe a butterfly with polka-dotted wings this time. She likes polka dots. They mingle nicely with her freckles.
She puts on lipstick and a raincoat, brushes her long red hair, and takes one last look out the window, hoping to find that the deluge has miraculously ended or that 28th Street is suddenly teeming with available taxis . . .
Which you can’t afford anyway, she reminds herself.
Good thing there are no cabs there to tempt her. It’s still pouring out; the street is still deserted.
Or is it?
Frowning, she leans closer to the window, spotting a figure across the street wearing a hooded slicker.
Whoever it is isn’t smoking or walking a dog or even walking at all. Just . . . standing. In the rain.
Must be a security guard for Con Ed. They usually hang out on the other side of the chain link fence, but the lot there is probably flooded. It happens sometimes.
It’s good to know someone is out there keeping a watchful eye on the block. She usually doesn’t worry about her safety in this neighborhood, even this late at night, but you never know.
Julia grabs her umbrella and wallet, containing only a MetroCard, her ID, and a five--dollar bill that has to last her until payday next week.
Then she turns off the light and heads out the door.
Mick was really hoping he’d get to talk to Brianna before the crowd dispersed after the hockey game, but she and her friends took off the minute it ended.