“But you couldn’t because we’re closed today. Dang Mondays.” I make a gagging face at myself in Jeremy’s toothpaste splattered mirror. My god, this place is the living definition of a bachelor pad.

“Right,” Greg says slowly. “Anyways. I know I said you don’t have to worry about the bulk of the rent until end of April but...”

“How much do you need?” I ask. Better to be brave, to rip off the Band-Aid.

He sighs again. “Ten thousand.”

My stomach sinks. It goes beyond sinking. It disappears. If we pay that we won’t have enough to pay our vendors next month. Tears bite at the corners of my eyes and I half sit, half fall onto the edge of Jeremy’s tub. “Right. Okay. Um.” My voice is hoarse. “When do you need it by?”

“End of the week.” The one nice thing about Greg is that he sounds like the last thing he wants to do is have this conversation. Maybe he’s so tired because he actually hates being a landlord.

“Cool. Cool,” I say, even though there’s nothing cool about this at all. “I’ll transfer the money over by Friday.”

“Thanks, Amy.” Greg doesn’t waste time with pleasantries or questions. The line goes dead and I slump, staring blindly at the now black screen.

Someone else’s TV murmurs through the thin walls of Jeremy’s apartment, mixing with the rom-com coming through his bathroom door. I’m supposed to galaxy brain this problem. I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. Rig up a solution with some duct tape and tenacity, the same way I’d fix a keg in the middle of a rush or get every bill settled with the power out. There has to be money somewhere, a proverbial couch cushion left unturned. But all I can think about is what Sophie’s face will look like when I have to tell her to take that other job. That all this prep she’s doing for Camilla, staying long past close to perfect an aioli or coming in early to brine meat, will be for nothing. There’s no way we’ll be in business by the time they’re ready to start filming.

If we even get chosen.

The worst part is I know exactly what her face will look like. She’ll be understanding, compassionate. There won’t be an ounce of pity, even though it’s exactly what I deserve. I’ve let her down, my whole team.

It’s the thought of them, my team, that gets me. The tears start to trickle down my face, fat and fast, at the thought of them, mostly queer and young, having to work somewhere else. I’d tried to give them something different. An opportunity to make a fair wage in the service industry.

I failed.

The door opens, catching on Jeremy’s bathmat. Wes takes a spot beside me on the edge of the tub and Jeremy sits on the closed toilet seat. Our legs tangle around each other in the cramped space. From the living room, I recognize the sounds of the movie’s finale, when the heroine runs across the field at Fenway to get to the hero. The knowledge that they’re missing the best part of the movie to sit in this tiny bathroom only makes me cry harder.