Kayla
I venture into the kitchen with a towel wrapped under my armpits to grab a can of soda. I have an audition this afternoon before my weekend with Pavel.
“You look great,” I tell my roommate Kimberly, who is dressed in a pair of short-shorts with fishnets underneath and a child-sized red T-shirt with the name of a new energy drink across her t**s.
“You should be going with us,” she complains. Normally I would be dressed in the same shirt, going out with my three roommates. We’re a promotions team. Or we were. But most promotions fall on Friday afternoons or evenings, which means I’ve missed seven out of the last nine events. “I don’t know how you’re going to pay the rent when you’ve barely worked in a month,” she says.
I get it. They feel let down. Maybe they miss me. It’s not like
