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“You love it, right?” Daniella says as she clasps her hands together.
“It’s just amazing,” I say. “I’m speechless.”
I sink down into a dining chair as Daniella grabs some water bottles from the fridge and arranges them on the kitchen island with a couple bottles of champagne.
I sigh contentedly and look out at the stunning landscape.
I’m from New York, but I’ve always been fascinated by the desert. New York is just never-ending gray buildings and a tangle of cold subway lines.
The desert is vast and open. It’s peaceful here. It’s a kind of peace I’ve never felt before.
My mom convinced me to come out here for college. I always thought I’d go to a local college and live in Brooklyn for the rest of my life, but she wanted me to think bigger. I applied to a bunch of schools all over the country, and this one gave me a full-ride scholarship which includes on-campus housing. My first real estate transaction!
Daniella and I met a few weeks ago at freshman orientation, and she’s taken me under her wing. She asked me out to lunch a few days later and told me to meet her at the real estate brokerage her father owns.
When I got there, I was awe-struck by the house listings hanging in the window. Each house was more beautiful than the last.
I was deep into a fantasy about waking up in one of them some day when a snooty woman stood up from her desk and gave me the evil eye. She sauntered over and opened the door a crack like she was afraid of letting any of the air-conditioned, rarified air blow my way.
“Are you here to inquire about a house?” she asked.
She tapped her pointed-toe stiletto heel at me while inspecting her nails.
“Um.” I took a step backward. “I’m just…window shopping?”
She made a big show of rolling her eyes and crossing her arms over her chest.
“I didn’t think you looked like the purchasing type.”
“I’m nineteen,” I said. “How would any nineteen-year-old be the purchasing type for houses like these?”
She opened her lips as Daniella spotted me from inside. She squeezed past the snobby lady and grabbed me.
“What's up with her?” I whispered as I shot a look over my shoulder.
“I don’t know,” she said. “She just started last month. I think she’s mad because her Maserati is the wrong shade of neon yellow.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Daniella come over with two glasses of champagne.
“Oh,” I say as she slips one into my hand. “I don’t really drink.”
“Don’t worry,” she says with a wink, “this is just sparkling cider. I always sneak in a bottle with the champagne.”
“I will drink to that,” I say as we clink our glasses together.
“Come on,” she says. “Let me show you the rest of the house.”
Daniella takes me on the grand tour of the second story. It’s more of the same wonderful things the first floor boasted—panoramic views and hard-wood floors, small embellishments, personal touches. Gorgeous wall-sconces and subtle carvings on the doors. Big, fluffy area rugs. It’s Manhattan-skyscraper-chic combined with a touch of the airy lightness of Southern California.
We walk through the biggest bedroom, gorgeously staged, and when we get to the main en-suite bathroom, I make a beeline directly to the shower.
I look at Daniella with hopeful eyes.
“May I?”
“Get in,” Daniella says as she crosses her arms and leans against the door frame.
I put my glass on the counter and step inside.
