Marital status? None.

Relationship status? My pen hesitated over that one. If I put Single, would they worry that strange men would visit at all hours of the night? Ha. I would never be so lucky. If I put that I was in a relationship, would they want my imaginary boyfriend’s information? Or worry about two of us living in the place? I wrote Single in clear, dignified letters, hoping my neat handwriting would win them over.

Occupation? I tapped my pen on the counter and tried to think of the most glamorous description of my job. Closet Organizer? Pomeranian Companion? I settled on the boring title of Administrative Assistant.

I read over the application a final time and wondered if I would be good enough.

13. The Italian Stallion

Cammie and Dante were having sex. Ridiculously loud sex. I sat on the couch, one thin door away from grunts, screams and a repetitive knock of her bedframe, and tried to watch Pretty Little Liars on DVR. Chewed really loudly on popcorn in an attempt to drown out the sounds.

Cammie, apparently, was a shrieker. How I hadn’t discovered that in four years of BFF bliss, I didn’t know. And Dante was making this breathy, grunty noise, which sounded unappealing when I described it, but was oh-my-god hot. I gave up on PLL and lay down, Adele playing through my headphones and still not drowning them out.

I rolled over on the couch and added a pillow to the mix.

Another fifteen minutes passed, and I glanced at the wall clock, impressed. Irritated, mind you, but impressed. The bedpost hit the wall, followed by a wail that lasted so long our neighbor pounded on the walls and screamed something along the lines of shut the hell up. I smiled despite myself. Closed my eyes and tried to go through tomorrow’s work itinerary. My job description had finally graduated from dogsitting, Nicole unleashing enough information to fill three pages in my notebook. This week was her trip to Vegas, strict instructions left to “keep Chanel entertained.” Whatever that meant. I listened to Cammie moan and brainstormed dog-friendly activities. Maybe we could hit a dog park. Make homemade dog biscuits? I watched the second hand move on Cammie’s clock and ran out of dogsitting ideas.

Vic and I had wanted a dog. We were going to get a Goldendoodle. I thought of the last time I saw him, when he’d used his key and let himself into my old apartment, crawling into my bed in the middle of the night, all apologies and tender touches and kisses. I had rolled over into his arms, and pretended for a few hours, that everything between us was okay. And it had been—in the hours before I tearfully kicked him out—wonderful. I felt a pang of something sharp and fresh and wondered, with Adele crooning in my ear, when the pain would go away. I wondered how much of my pain was heartbreak and how much was hurt over his betrayal.

The song ended, and I realized that Cammie’s shrieks had stopped. I pulled the earphones off and waited a beat. The bathroom sink began to run and I let out a sigh of relief, stopping my playlist and unplugging the headphones, setting them on the coffee table.

I closed my eyes and pushed thoughts of Vic aside. My interview for the apartment was in one week. I prayed, for the sake of my innocent ears, that it went perfectly.

14. Pop Quiz

Being late to an interview was never good. I knew that, which is why I walked into the tiny office, stuck on the ground floor of my *fingers crossed* new apartment building, three minutes early. The couple who owned the building, ancient New Yorkers, were already there, stuffed behind a little desk. The woman checked the time, the resulting glare causing me to steal a glance at my own watch. Still three minutes early.

“Nice of you to join us,” the woman said dryly. “I take it you are…” she peered at a clipboard in her hand, “Chloe Madison?”

“Yes.” I stepped fully into the office and extended my hand, the man considering it before reluctantly shaking it. When I offered my hand to the woman, she simply sniffed.

“I have a bit of a cold,” she explained. “Please sit.”

“We have some questions to ask you,” the man grumbled, glancing at me with eyes that probably lifted a ton of poodle skirts at one time.

I perched on the edge of the chair and gave my best smile, my suit a little tight in the thighs. “Certainly.” I’d spent the night before reading over every question on the application, prepping for all of the topics they might bring up. I’d carefully rehearsed how to answer any questions about my parents’ occupations, why I’d left my other apartment, and how long I’d been at Cammie’s.

“Who is the mayor of New York?”

The presses in my brain stopped. In my four years in New York, I had barely picked my head up from my books, or my drink, or Hulu, long enough to notice current politics in this giant city. I swear, the first name that almost spilled from my lips was Giuliani. Thank God I stopped that brain fart in time.

I swallowed, sweat dampening the back of my shirt. “I-I … I just graduated from NYU. I’m afraid that my studies have taken up the majority of my time.”

My answer passed, no contempt blazing in their eyes. Burying oneself in studies was, apparently, a point in my favor. “What major?” the woman asked.

“Real Estate with a minor in Psychology.” I breathed a little easier at a question I knew. I just hoped she wouldn’t ask me to produce a diploma.

“You aren’t up to date on New York politics? Or any politics at all?” The man wasn’t letting this go.

To lie or not to lie, that was the question. I smiled and tried not to fidget. “Politics in general. I just haven’t had time to stay properly informed.”

“What political party are your parents?”

“Republican.” I crossed my fingers and hoped it was the right answer. The man actually smiled, and I relaxed a little.

“And what do your parents do?” The woman flipped a page of my application.

Oh God. It was so hot in there. I felt a bead of sweat run down my back. “Investment banking.” Be short and sweet, Cammie had coached.

The woman smiled. A miracle. I guess she liked that answer. She glanced at the man, who cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting the tops of his fingers on the desk as if he was playing the piano. “It’s very important to us, Ms. Madison, that this building maintains a certain level of decorum. We won’t tolerate parties or loud music or a lot of young people coming in and out at late hours.”

“I understand. I’m very focused on my career right now. I won’t be a problem.” I forced a smile and hoped it was convincing. I knew what they were worried about. And that girl, just a few months ago, was me. But ever since losing my money, ever since moving in with Cammie, ever since working for Nicole… I’d gotten pretty boring. I had, fortunately or unfortunately, grown up. Was staying in more than going out. I was what they wanted. And I was desperate for the apartment.

They asked a few more invasive questions. Did I eat meat? What was my opinion on the United States’ involvement in the Middle East? Was I involved in any charitable organizations? Did I have a 401(k)? Did I understand that there would be absolutely no pets of any kind allowed in the apartment? The last question—the only appropriate question out of the whole bunch—gave me the first hint that I was passing the ridiculous interview. The deal was sealed five minutes later, when they passed me the keys, along with a three-page list of rules for tenants.

I would move in on the fifteenth. And even though it was my third apartment since moving from Miami, it felt like the first time I’d really be living here. Maybe it was my name on the lease. Or the hours of work behind my deposit. But I knew one thing: it felt good. Scratch that. It felt great.