I cry tears of relief that I didn’t manage to lose her. Of all the things I’m going to miss about living in Bancroft’s condo, apart from Bancroft, I’ll miss his ferret. Francesca, not the one in his pants. I cry while playing with her in his sheets. I know I’ll see her again before Bancroft returns—but I’m emotional and I’m going to miss her.

After he returns there’s no guarantee I’m ever going to see Franny again. It’s also sort of symbolic of losing Bane—who I never really had in the first place. I change Tiny’s water and feed her a cricket even though I did it two days ago. I’m a puffy-eyed mess by the time I’m ready to claim Bancroft’s truck.

Stan looks a little uneasy as I try to navigate the truck while still sniffling. Thankfully it has a backup camera with one of those beeper things that tells me when I’m getting too close to other objects. That seems to happen a lot in this beast. I manage to get out of the underground parking without hitting anything.

Driving a truck in the streets of New York is insane. I have no idea how Bancroft manages this thing. It’s huge. And the lanes are narrow. The nice thing about it is that if I want to change lanes and no one is letting me go I can just edge my way in and they really don’t have a choice but to let it happen. It helps that I don’t really care if the truck ends up with a ding.

I have a key to Amie’s apartment, so it’s not a big deal getting in once I arrive at her place. Carting all my stuff up to the twelfth floor is a bit of a pain in my ass since it takes five trips, plus my luggage. I line my pitiful pile of boxes against the only available wall. Once I’m done, I park the truck in the underground garage, luckily Amie’s building has one as well, and get a pass for it. I use my sex money from Bane to pay for that. I’m not driving it back today. I’ll do it tomorrow morning. I can’t imagine Bancroft will be back by then.

By the time I’m done I’m sweaty and hungry. I check Amie’s fridge for food. I’m sorely disappointed. Her food selection is minimal. There’s lettuce, and some fruit, but I’m used to living with a former rugby player who loves his carbs and meat. Plus I’m working a very active job these days. I need the calories to maintain the booty I’m currently rocking.

Amie lives on the fringe of the theater district, much like Bancroft, so her apartment isn’t all that far away. It’s a fabulous area, and this apartment costs a mint. But she makes great money where she works, so it’s affordable for her. Unless I manage to snag a prime role in a Broadway production, there’s no damn way I’ll ever be able to afford something like this. And doesn’t that just piss me off all over again.

I grab my purse and head to the street. It’s early afternoon, and I’m starving. I think I might actually be hangry at this point. I check my phone as I’m walking down the street. I have messages from Amie, but nothing from Bancroft. He must be in London by now. That I haven’t heard from him is another kick in the vagina.

I need comfort food. Something greasy and unhealthy. I continue down the street, determined to find something that doesn’t require me to sit down. I just want food and then I want to go back to Amie’s apartment, shower, and maybe catch a nap before I have to head to work.

As I’m passing one of the small, eclectic theaters on the side streets, I notice a poster for open auditions plastered to the door. It’s for today. I check the time. And right now.

Now here is one of those instances in which the “everything happens for a reason” adage is actually reasonable and welcome. I abandon the quest for food. It’s an audition for a play I’ve never heard of. Not that it matters. As long as I can read the script and learn the lines in the time they give me, it’s worth a shot. I don’t have any food in my stomach, so it’s not like I’m going to vomit all over the director. The worst that can happen is not getting a callback.

I enter the theater. It’s gorgeous inside, and high ceilings and ornately carved pillars lead my eye to a folding table. Behind it sits a woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses and bloodred lipstick.

I put on my brightest, friendliest smile. “There are open auditions here today?”

Her eyes widen when she sees me. “There are,” she says with some hesitation.

I look down at my outfit. I’m a bit of a mess. My shirt is smudged with dirt and my jeans have holes in them. I’m far from put together. Oh well, I’m here now. “Okay. Great. I’d like to audition then.”

She gives me a patronizing smile and slides a form over. “Fill this out, please.”

I scribble my way through the basic paperwork and pass it back, exchanging it for a script. “They’ll call you in shortly. You’re the last audition before they break for the afternoon.”

“Thank you.” Well, that’s fortunate. I follow her directions to the theater, scanning the script.

The scene they’ve chosen is one with high emotion. The female lead is angry, frustrated, and explosive. I’m feeling all of these things. If nothing else, auditioning for this role will be cathartic.

I cry real tears during my audition. Ones born of true frustration, for my own predicament, for the role I want. I may take it a touch too far into melodrama, but it’s definitely therapeutic.

I leave the theater feeling less angry and really damn hungry. I find a pizza place and scarf down two slices. Then I return to my new, temporary home, shower, and get ready for work.

Tomorrow I need to find an apartment. I won’t put Amie out like this for longer than I have to. More than anything, I just want to be able to manage life on my own, without having to rely on anyone else for support—at least the financial kind. While this situation sucks, at least my current job will afford me money for rent and the basics. I don’t need or want luxury if it comes with this kind of emotional price tag.

Work feels different tonight. I keep expecting to see Bancroft standing at the back of the club, looking angry. But he’s not, because he’s in another country. As angry as I am, I’m also sad. He’d become a friend. Someone who didn’t judge me and accepted me for who I was.

In the morning I’m disappointed all over again by the lack of communication from him. I guess that tells me clearly where we stand.

I drive his truck back to his condo and allow the valet to park it. I’m surprised I’ve managed to return it with no damage, apart from the latte I spilled in the center console. I didn’t try very hard to clean it up. I hope by the time he gets back it smells like sour milk in there. It’s vindictive, but I’m not feeling all that nice on account of his hypocrisy.