Page 23 of Boyfriend of the Hour
“But—who—what—” I swallowed. “Where am I supposed to go?”
There was another shared glance around the room. Clearly, they’d been prepared for this moment. The one where I broke like an egg.
Lea reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Mike and I talked. You can use the breakroom in the garage until you find a place to land. Frankie’s giving you the first and last—but you need to make rent, Jo. No exceptions.”
She handed me the keys, and I stared at them, dumbfounded. “You want me to live above the auto shop? It doesn’t even have a shower!”
“It’s better than a shelter, don’t you think?” Kate offered.
I looked between them and the keys. “But that place smells like motor oil and bad coffee and cigarettes, and I’ll be woken up every morning by the greasy dudes who know exactly five words, and?—”
“And it’s a free roof over your head,” Lea cut in sharply. “You can shower at my house down the block. That’s the best we got.”
“Maybe she could come to London with us…” Frankie started, clearly feeling sorry for me.
“That’s just coddling her,” Lea argued back. “We discussed this.”
“Yes,” Nonna agreed, though she was looking at me. “Lea is right. We decided.”
Even Nonna was in on this shitty little ‘reality check’?
My mind raced as I tried to come up with another solution. Anything besides a grimy shop room drenched in grease and my family’s pity.
Maybe I could stay with a friend? Except none of my friends had extra space—they were either dancers living four to a studio or kids from high school who already had husbands and babies too. Rochelle would give me her couch, but Carmine would kick me out within a day or two.
Sleep at the bar? Doubtful. Tom did that himself half the week, and the only accommodation in his packed office was a cot in the corner.
Fuck.Fuck.
I felt a hand land on mine and looked up at Nonna, peering at me with a mixture of sadness and resignation.
“Joni, I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to do this, but it’s time for you to grow up. Time forla civettato leave the nest.”
My chin trembled, eyes pricking with unshed tears.
“Fine,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I pushed back from the table, causing the chair leg to screech loudly on the wood floor. “I’ll just fly the coop, then.”
“Joni, wait,” Frankie called as I stormed out of the room. “We can help you look?—”
“Don’t bother,” I called, already yanking on my jacket and throwing my purse over one shoulder. “You just made it clear that from this point forward, I’m on my own. I’ll figure it out myself.”
FOUR
STEPS TO SNEAKING OUT OF A ONE-NIGHT STAND
#7 put your shoes on AFTER u leeve the apt
Itried to show my sisters. I really did. I marched right out of that house, hopped on the train back to Manhattan, skipped into Opal, and charmingly demanded at least five shifts a week and an advance on my next paycheck.
Tom just laughed and went back to pouring a beer. He did, however, offer me free drinks while I soothed my wounded ego and tried to come up with another plan.
Free drinking led to flirting with the crowd that flocked to Opal on Saturday nights to leer at the go-go dancers (who used to include me) and make out with anything that moved.
Flirting led to kissing a man with a silver earring and shaggy blond hair.
Kissing led to…well, I couldn’t really say exactly what. Waking up in a stranger’s bed with a raging hangover and a ray of sunlight piercing through the blinds like a needle straight to the eyeball, I guess.
Ouch.
