Looking down, I’m suddenly reminded that all I have on is a sleep shirt that reads: “I don’t hate morning people. Mornings have nothing to do with it.” It barely covers my ass, and the wide neck falls off my shoulder. It’s certainly not something I’d want to be caught in by him.
“Definitely an asshole,” I groan as I hurry to my room and slam the door shut behind me.
I hear him laughing through the wall, which just irritates me more. This is so not going to work. Either he’s going to push me to the point of wanting to return to Nebraska, or I’m going to kill him.
After a couple additional hours of restful sleep, I wake to a mostly quiet apartment. This is how it should be every morning, I think to myself. A band of light shines through the space between the mini blind and windowsill. My first full day in Chicago, and the sun is shining, which has to be a good sign.
The first thing I need to do, before I go job hunting or anything else, is call Mom. The short text from yesterday won’t hold her off for long. I grab my phone from where I left it on the other side of the bed and press HOME in my contact list. No matter where I go or what I do, it will always be home.
After just one ring, she answers, “Hey, how’s my city girl?”
“I’m good. How are things back home?”
She sighs. “Is it bad to admit that I miss you already? I didn’t have anyone to drink my coffee with this morning.”
I smile sadly. Mom and I have had breakfast together every morning since my relationship with Derek ended. A lot of internal crap was sorted out during those mornings; it’s how I ended up here.
“I miss you too.”
“What are your plans today?”
“I need to finish unpacking, and then I’m going to see if I can find a job,” I reply, resting my head against the mahogany headboard.
“Any idea where you’re going to look?”
I stare up at the plain white ceiling like it might hold an answer . . . it doesn’t. “I think I’m just going to walk around the area and see what there is.”
“You’ll find something. They’d be stupid not to hire you.”
“Spoken like a true mom,” I say, rolling my eyes.
She chuckles. I love when she does that, because it’s so contagious even when I try my hardest not to catch it. “Yes, but it’s true. You’re smart like your momma. So how’s the apartment and everything?”
“The apartment is small but really nice. The bedroom is very Mallory, but I love it.” I pause, trying to decide what else to tell her about my current living situation. Blake is something I hadn’t figured into the equation. “And I have a roommate.”
“What? Who?”
“Mallory’s brother. I didn’t realize anyone else lived here until he came through the door last night. Seriously, I thought I was going to die at the hands of a crazed lunatic my first night in Chicago.” Just thinking about it makes me shiver.
“At least you’ll have somebody to watch out for you. Is he anything like Mallory?” she asks. Mom met Mallory a few times during my college days. She’s so close to perfect, she makes me look like the devil’s spawn.
“Not exactly.”
“Is he nice?”
“Umm,” I answer, smacking my lips. ‘Blake’ and ‘nice’ have a slim chance of ever being used in the same sentence from what I’ve seen so far.
“Oh boy, well, maybe you’ll find a job today, and you can move into your own place soon, then you won’t have to worry about it,” she says in her matter-of-fact mom voice. I love her and that voice. She’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember. Anything I need, she’s there for me.
“I should probably go if I’m going to make a dent in my job hunt today.”
“Okay, call me tonight and let me know how it went.”
“I will.” And if I don’t, she’ll call. It’s a guarantee.
“Be safe. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
I hang up the phone feeling calmer, but also missing home. Somehow, I need to find that here. I need to meet people and make Chicago home.
AS I STEP OUTSIDE IN THE light of day, I realize this neighborhood looks much like I pictured it last night. Blocks of tall brick buildings as far as the eye can see, but they’re dressed up by the colorful leaves on the trees that line the narrow street. Fall in Chicago isn’t that different from my hometown.
I start walking down the sidewalk, hoping there’s a business district tucked in here somewhere with a few restaurants or coffee shops. I’m not going to be picky, especially if it allows me to avoid the public transportation system, or even better yet, get far away from Blake.
The air is cool and crisp against my skin, forcing me to pull my black pea coat closed tighter. The street is pretty quiet, but then again, it’s Friday afternoon and people are probably working.
I head north, seeing more businesses come into view. There’s nothing big and flashy about it. It kind of reminds me of the downtown in my hometown: quaint shops, wrought iron benches lining the sidewalks, and shoppers gazing inside store windows.
I decide to start on one side and work my way to the other. When I don’t see any HELP WANTED signs, I leave my nervousness and reservations behind and start going inside to ask, hoping for a little luck.
The first three places quickly turn me away. The next, a coffee shop, hands me an application, but says they’ll keep it on file because they don’t have any open positions at the moment. Next, I go into a flower shop and craft boutique without any success.
There’s one place I skipped: a bar with a rough-looking exterior—faded sign, beer lights only half lit. Feeling deflated, I take a deep breath and pull open the door. The first thing that hits me is the smell of stale beer.
I walk up to the wooden bar, feeling completely out of place. This isn’t a yuppie hang out. There are no suits or classy dresses; it’s T-shirts and tattoos.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I look up to see the bartender eyeing me up and down, the corner of his lips turning up. He’s a little older—maybe forty—and his black T-shirt is pulled tight against his muscled chest.
“Actually, I was wondering if you’re hiring,” I say, squeezing in between two bar stools.
He laughs. “You want to work here?”
I swallow, glancing around to see most sets of eyes on me. “Yes.”
He licks his lower lip, seeming to contemplate something. Just being here makes me nervous, but I’m not in the position to be picky. I watch as he walks to the other end of the bar and opens a drawer, shuffling through a stack of papers. When he comes back, he slides a single piece of paper in my direction. “Fill this out.”
In front of me is the shortest job application I’ve ever laid my eyes on. It asks for my name, address, what position I’m applying for, and if I’ve ever been convicted of a felony.
Hesitantly, I fill in all the information and slide it back to him.
“When can you start?”
My eyes widen. “What about the interview?”
He grins. “Sweetheart, around here, this is your interview.”
Shit. Do I really want to do this? Then I remember my depleting bank account. Sometimes, life doesn’t give us a choice.
“I can start right away.”
Please don’t make me regret this.
Actually, no, I’m already regretting this.
“I had a waitress quit a couple nights ago. Couldn’t handle the pressure apparently. Come in tonight, around seven. And,” he starts, reaching under the bar, “this is your uniform.”
I lift the tiny black tank top, which reads: Charlie’s Bar and Billiards across the front in white print. It’s cut low; I’ll be lucky if it covers my chest, and that shouldn’t be hard to do.