Yvette answers on the third ring. “Scott Pharmaceuticals, Yvette speaking, please hold.”

“Hi, Yve—” I’m cut off by the elevator music, followed by an advertisement for my father’s penis drugs. I roll my eyes and put my phone on speaker while I wait.

Five minutes later she finally clicks back over. “Thank you for holding. Yvette speaking, how may I help you today?”

“Hi, Yvette, it’s Ruby.”

“Hello. How may I direct your call, Ruby?”

Amie and I exchange a look.

“It’s Harrison’s daughter.”

“Oh! Ruby, of course. How silly of me. Would you like to speak with Harrison? I believe he may be in a meeting, however you can leave a voice mail for him and I’m sure he’ll return your call as soon as he can.”

“Actually, I think you may be able to help me. I’ve just received a notice regarding the termination of the lease on my apartment. Apparently the last three checks have bounced. Do you happen to know if there’s been an accounting error?” I clench my fists to avoid chewing on my fingernails.

“Oh, hmm. Let me have a look,” she says in her high-pitched, lilting voice.

“Thanks so much, Yvette.”

“Of course. It’s no trouble.” Clicking on the other end of the line tells me she looking at my financial files. “Oh, yes! Now I remember! Your father stopped direct deposits to this account about three months ago.”

“Why would he do that without telling me?”

“I sent you an email from him with the details. Let me just bring it up.” There’s more clicking on her end of the line. “Ah! I found it. Oh. Oh, no. It appears it’s still in draft form. I’ll just send it now. Bloop! There you go! Would you like me to read it to you?”

My phone pings with the email alert. “It’s fine. I can open it now.”

“I’ll just wait while you read it, then.” She hums pleasantly while I open the email and scroll. The roll in my stomach grows progressively worse as I absorb the contents. My father stopped his financial assistance three months ago and had his incompetent secretary send me an email notification. Apparently it was up to me to renew my lease and continue the payments. In case I’ve forgotten his plan, he ends the email with a note that a job would be available should I need to return to Rhode Island. And my whore-mother is looking forward to working with me.

Once my father married whore-mother, he moved her to another department—because God forbid there was a conflict of interest happening. Not only is her paygrade exceptionally higher than before, she was also given a sweet promotion which means my father wants me to work under her. I scrub a palm over my face. I’m not sure if I feel more like crying or vomiting again. It’s a real toss-up.

I must groan, or make some kind of noise, because Yvette speaks again. If her chipper voice had a face I’d want to punch it. “I apologize for the delay in communication.”

“It would’ve been good to have this information months ago.” Not that it would’ve helped that much. The rent still would’ve been a stretch to pay, let alone affording anything beyond the ramen noodles I’ve been eating for the past three weeks. I could’ve started my new meal plan that much sooner, I suppose.

“Would you like me to put you through to your father? I’m not sure when his meeting will be done, but you can leave him a message, or I can take one down and give it to him as soon as he comes available.” She sounds nervous now.

Talking to my father isn’t going to solve this problem. It’s likely only going to make things worse. “No. No, thank you Yvette. I need to go. Thank you for your time.” I end the call before she can say anything else.

Amie’s staring at me with wide eyes and her mouth agape. “Why aren’t you going to talk to your father? He can fix this.”

“I need to think.” I rub my temples. “I have to call my landlord.” So I do. Not that it helps. Turns out my apartment is already rented and I still owe three months of overdue rent. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t even notice I’d missed it. I imagine it’s my father who would’ve gotten the notification instead of me, because he’s the one who’s been paying the rent.

“You have to call your dad and ask him to fix this.”

“He can’t fix this now.”

“He can at least help you out with the rent.”

“And then what? I’m still not going to have a place to live.”

About six months ago, just after I scored my last role, my father and I had had a heated conversation about my career path. He’s made his disapproval clear, but he tolerated my choices because of my mother’s influence, and her guilt trip. His money still came with a price tag, and in this case it was shame. He’d said I’d finished my program, so I should be employable. If I couldn’t manage on my own, I’d be coming home to work for him.

I’ve heard that lecture so many times I can recite it in my sleep. Until now I thought he was blowing smoke up my rear end. It was after that conversation that I opened my own bank account, secured my own Visa, and the small line of credit. When my paycheck stopped coming in, I opted to raise my credit limit by a few thousand dollars instead of going to him.

If I call him now, I’ll have to admit defeat. And I feel as though he may be setting me up for this to happen. It’s as if he wants me to fail. If he finds out what’s happened, and how I have no other options, he’ll definitely send someone for me. Well, he might not send someone. He’s more likely to put me on a plane because driving that far isn’t on his priority list.

Home is not where I want to be. Home is Rhode Island. Home means I’ve failed. Home means my dream is dead and my dad was right all along: I’m not good enough for a career on Broadway. Or Off-Broadway. Or anywhere near Broadway.

Admitting failure isn’t the worst part. Going home means working for my father’s pharmaceutical empire where he deals in penis-hardening drugs. He’ll turn me into a corporate drone. I’ll have to sit behind a desk and type letters and stamp things and make sure meetings are scheduled in the right rooms. All my creativity will end up in the shredder bin, along with my dignity.

I know there are people out there struggling for a job, any job, and I should be grateful. And while the idea of working at my father’s company is not my idea of fun, it’s not the end of the world. Working under his new wife would be it’s own special kind of hell. I completely disagree with my father that it would be a good way for us to get to know each other and bond. I told him it’s a good way for me to end up in prison for murder. He did not appreciate my humor.