Page 10 of That Fake Feeling

Moveout?Ihave to move out?Andgo where?

Thedread tightens its grip on my stomach.GuessIshould be grateful she says there’s no hurry.

“Rob’srenting out his place and moving in here, so we can save up,” she continues. “Butthe tenant doesn’t move in till the end of the month.Soyou have a couple of weeks.”

Andshe vanishes.

Acoupleofweeks?

Andthat’sno rush?

Myhands and feet are instantly freezing cold as all the blood rushes to my pounding heart.Mystomach ties itself into a knot, then tries to crawl up into my throat.

Iflop onto my back again, my hands over my eyes.

Twoweeks to move out?Tolive where?Ina cockroach-infested pit miles from a subway?Witha bizzarro roommate who feeds the infestation of cockroaches to her collection of exotic frogs?

Minutesago, whenIstill had a place to live,Ithought it might be impossible to keep my life plan on track.Whatthe hell amIsupposed to do now thatIdon’t even have that anymore?

Ituck my icy feet under the blanket at the bottom of the bed, roll over onto my side, and bury my face in the pillow.Cryingin the fetal position won’t achieve anything, butImight just have to do it for a little while anyway.

Thismight be it.Itreally might be the end of the road for my plan to become a special ed professor and dedicate my life to sending as many teachers asIcan out into the world to give kids the help they need.

I’malready doing everythingIknow how to do.Workhard, study hard.Payrent, pay tuition.Volunteerto gain knowledge and experience.

Theonly thing that would help would be a full-time job, but there aren’t enough hours in the day for that.Well, not unlessIgive up my time at the kids’ learning center.AndIneed that work history to help get me into aPhDprogram onceI’vefinished my master’s.

Iwipe my stinging eyes, snatch in a breath, and stroke the pearl in my mom’s ring on the middle finger of my right hand.Thesmooth, round surface under my thumb always soothes me whenI’mstressed or worried.It’sgotten me through many an exam.

“Tellme what to do,Mom?”Iwhisper. “Itry, andItry, andItry, but it’s all going wrong.WhatcanIdo now?I’mall out of ideas.”

Thering blurs as tears fall silently across my face and drip onto the pillow.

Butcrying is no good.Cryingdoesn’t help anything.I’venever wallowed in self-pity in my life, and there’s no time for me to start now.

Iroll onto my back, my hand falling to my side and landing on my phone just as it buzzes.

UNKNOWN(6:23PM)

HelloagainRose.ThisisSterling.Incase you change your mind, my number is 212-555-0144.

3

ROSE

Therattle of my suitcase wheels on the sidewalk comes to a halt asIstop to flex my arm and give it a rest.Idon’t have much stuff, but textbooks are heavy.Haulingthe suitcase up the subway steps was no fun, and after the fifteen-minute walk from there, it’s likeI’mdragging the weight of the world behind me.

Andthe steamy heat of theNewYorksummer isn’t helping.

There’sa diagonal line of sweat across my whiteT-shirt, spreading out from under the strap of my laptop bag, and the hair that’s fallen out of my stubby ponytail is sticking to my forehead.

Thebottom half of me isn’t much better.Ididn’t realize untilIwas sitting on the subway thatI’ddripped milk from my breakfast cereal onto my khaki shorts.Theynow have a weird-looking stain in a crotch-adjacent area.Andtwo blocks ago, one side of the strap on my right flip-flop snapped, soI’vebeen hobbling along, gripping it with my toes to try to keep it on, ever since.

I’mgoing to make a great first impression.

Butwhy the hellI’mworrying about that,Ihave no idea.Myfirst impression ofConnorDashwoodwas of him being day-drunk and tackling me into a vegetable plot.

Iadjust my cross-body bag and take in the tree-lined street.I’venever been to this part ofChelseabefore.It’san eclectic mix of historic brownstones, new glass-and-concrete townhouses, and cool industrial lofts with glossy black fire escapes that stand out against the red brick.