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As I pull into the Westin’s parking lot, I roll my eyes at the gaudy eagle statues that are perched around the edges of the building. They serve no purpose whatsoever, and the fact that the building is coated in plated silver glass is enough to say “This place doesn’t belong here.”
The eagles are just rubbing it in.
I park in a small reserved spot, underneath a small metal awning that covers the hood of my car. I’m hoping that the rain will slow to a trickle within the next few minutes so I won’t have to sit through the interview wet.
It’s been raining like this for weeks, and every day of grayness makes me miss Leah more and more.
If she were alive right now, we’d be outside dancing until the rain completely soaked us. Back when I was in Jersey, she and I “ruled the rain” whenever it stormed. We’d sit out on our balcony and split a pack of cigarettes, watching each other to see who could keep the buds lit the longest in the rainfall.
The day she died, I refused to let them take her from the house. I fucking lost it—screaming at every person who tried to talk to me, hitting the medics who tried to keep me away from her dead body.
When I finally calmed down (The police restrained me), I tried my best to accept her death. I attempted to make funeral arrangements—insisting on all white roses and calla lilies, the type of flowers Leah loved. But the prices for a burial were outrageous, so outrageous that I sold all my designer bags and clothes and was still three thousand dollars short.
I called around to ask her regulars for help, to see if they could throw me a couple hundred dollars each, but they acted as if they had no idea who I was. I didn’t know who else to call, and before I could consider my options, my grandparents showed up and brought me to Blythe, Alabama—where we eventually buried Leah.
I was so numb, so alone.
Completing my final months of high school at a new school was hard, but living with two family members I’d never met before was far more challenging: They never let me stay home from school—no matter how many times I told them it was too easy. They bought all my clothes from the clearance section at department stores, and they made up my mind about going to college before I did.
“Ma’am? Ma’am?” A man taps on my window, knocking me out of my memory.
I roll my window down. “Yes?”
“This isn’t a parking spot. Are you an employee here?”
“No, I’m here for an interview.” I notice the yellow “Blythe Police Department” logo on his poncho. “I’ll move.”
“Actually—” He’s staring at me—really staring at me, so I give him my best seductive smile.
“Pull up under the valet awning,” he says. “I’ll make sure no one touches your car. The rain’s not letting up any time soon and I would hate for you to get wet before your interview.” He glances at my tight fitting shirt and motions for me to pull off.
“Always use your seductive smile to get your way, Em...No man in his right mind will ever turn you down if you use it right...”
I smile and drive towards the valet port as Leah’s words play in my head. Stepping out, I toss the red-suited teenager the keys. I have three minutes before I’m officially late and I need to read a little more about this place before it’s my turn to get interviewed.
I pull my resume from the inside of my pocket and look over it one last time. Making my way past the signs that read “interviews being held here,” I notice that there are at least a hundred people here—all hoping to be “hired on the spot” like the radio advertisement promised.
The second I find an empty chair near the back, a female voice calls from the other side of the room. “Emerald Anderson?”
I stand up and put on my best smile. I walk over to where I heard the voice, and I’m ushered into a small office.
“Emerald Anderson.” The woman shuts the door behind me and leaves me alone—facing a bald and overweight man who’s easily in his thirties.
His nameplate reads “Ethan Kyle” and I can tell by the way he’s dressed—impeccable black suit, sparkling cufflinks, and designer tie—that he thinks he’s too good to formally introduce himself to me.
“Good afternoon, Miss Anderson,” he says and motions for me to sit down.
“Good afternoon...” There’s silence as I take my seat, as I pull my grey skirt over my thighs.
I can feel him undressing me with his eyes, looking me up and down, and I immediately feel sick.
“Miss Anderson...” He reaches for my resume, letting his fingers grace my fingertips for a little too long. “Why do you want to work for the Westin?”
