I picked up the card and turned it over. Hunter Interactive. The name alone sounded like a world I had no business stepping into.
"It’s where you're working, right?"
"Yeah. It's one of our businesses. My brother needs an assistant," he confirmed. "Fair warning though, he’s a little eccentric. He barks, but he doesn’t bite." He paused, tilting his head like he was reconsidering. "Much."
I laughed. "Reassuring."
"You’d be good at it. I remember you, Anna. You don’t quit." He stood, buttoning his blazer. "Call me. Seriously."
He left a tip on his table that was bigger than my entire shift’s earnings. I watched him walk out the door, his card still warm between my fingers, and for the first time in weeks, the future didn’t feel like a wall I was walking toward with my eyes closed.
I called that night, sitting cross-legged on Miley’s couch with the business card balanced on my knee.
I agreed to the job. Because I needed money to survive in Miami, and Miley’s name had been on every utility bill for two months, and the weight of someone else carrying me was becoming harder to bear than any terrible boss could be.
Two days later. Saturday. The Wynwood Farmers Market.
Miley dragged me there because she believed fresh air cured everything except bad credit, and after the week I'd had, I figured worse prescriptions existed. The market was packed. Stalls lined both sides of the street, overflowing with produce and handmade soaps and those twelve-dollar candles that smelled like someone’s idea of what relaxation should cost.
Miley was currently holding one up to her nose with her eyes closed, inhaling like it contained the meaning of life.
"This one smells like if autumn was a person," she announced.
"That’s not a thing."
"It’s absolutely a thing. Autumn would smell like cinnamon and old books and, like, a cardigan." She held it toward me. "Smell."
I leaned in. "It smells like a candle, Miley."
"You have no soul." She set it down and picked up another one, turning it over to check the price and wincing only slightly. "Okay, what about this? Coastal something. Sea salt and driftwood."
"You don’t even know what driftwood smells like."
"I know what twelve dollars smells like, and it smells like this." She grinned, tucking the candle under her arm. "I’m getting it. Don’t judge me."
"I’m judging you so hard right now."
"Judge away. I’m employed and I deserve nice things." She pointed the candle at me. "And before you do the thing where you do math in your head about how twelve dollars could buy groceries, stop. We’re allowed to have joy, Anna. Joy smells like sea salt and driftwood. Apparently."
I smiled, and it didn’t feel forced. Miley Torres had been my anchor since the day I showed up in Miami with two suitcases and a savings account that would make a college freshman cringe.
She’d opened her door without asking a single question, handed me a pillow, and told me the Wi-Fi password. I tried to find a job in my line of work, photography. Picked up a few small gigs here and there, but nothing that came close to paying the bills.
Just when I was losing hope, Miley got me the diner job through the restaurant where she worked as an assistant chef.She’d been feeding me, housing me, and pretending it wasn’t charity with the dedication of someone who deserved a trophy.
She disappeared into a soap stall, and my phone went off.
I turned away from the stall, pulling my phone out while I sipped my iced Americano.
A message from Mom.
She was asking about my week, whether I was eating enough, whether Miami was treating me well. The usual. I typed back a response, eyes on the screen, feet moving without direction.
I wasn’t watching where I was going.
A kid on a scooter came out of nowhere, weaving between people at a speed no child should’ve been allowed to reach in a crowded market. I sidestepped to avoid getting clipped, only for my foot to catch on the uneven pavement.
I pitched forward, coffee sloshing, and crashed directly into someone’s back.
