Some of the anger I wanted to direct at my brother fizzled out, and I looked down at the floor. My eyes were probably red-rimmed and bloodshot. There was no denying it. “It’s none of your business.”
“Tell me, since we’re being so honest with one another suddenly,” he said.
I swallowed. Did my brother know that Landon had gotten married? “Something happened and I’m a little upset,” I said. “But it’s not your business.”
“Something always happens between Landon and women. That’s what I’ve spent years trying to spare you from.”
I hated that he was right, and I hated that I trusted Landon, and I hated this whole fucking day. Anger spiraled into fury.
“Stay out of my life, Matt,” I said, and then turned away, bounding up the steps to my room. Like a petulant child, I slammed my door, and then went to my closet and yanked out my suitcase. I threw it down on my bed, and then pulled my cell phone out of my pocket.
He answered in one ring.
“Professor Valdez?” I asked, my voice strong with certainty. “You’re right. About everything. I want to take the internship.”
Chapter 3
Dallas was muggy. I’d expected to feel dry, desert-like heat, but the moisture in the air stuck to my skin, weighing me down.
I rolled my suitcase down the sidewalk, wondering if I’d packed the right clothes. The furthest I’d ever traveled was Southern Oregon, but Summer in Texas was so much hotter. Hopefully the lab was air conditioned.
I grabbed the first cab in line, and the driver helped me shove my oversized suit case into the trunk. Moments later we were barreling down the road, the car’s pathetic air-conditioning vent doing all it could to keep my thighs from sticking to the seat. I expected him to go all the way downtown, to where the skyscrapers and the glossy buildings beckoned. That’s where the lab was, nestled between two skyscrapers.
Instead, he slowed on the outskirts of the city, taking an exit and turning right. I wanted to tell him he must have it wrong, that this didn’t look right, but the sign we passed said Rose street, matching the address I gave him. The one Professor Valdez had emailed me to me when I was on my way to the airport.
And then he pulled up at a squat grey apartment building and dread pressed down on my shoulders. I searched the structure for an address, and when I found 624, disappointment settled in.
This wasn’t what I’d pictured. Professor Valdez said his assistant had had to scramble for accommodations, since the original intern had already canceled his apartment rental, then leaving it for his replacement. He’d told me it would be modest, that finding a six week, furnished rental that could be covered by the internship stipend had been unexpectedly difficult.
But modest didn’t quite cover this.
“Here we are,” the cabbie said, putting his car in park. I wanted to tell him there’d been a mistake; he should take me back to the airport, or drop me at a hotel.
But I didn’t have money for a hotel. I could cover a few days, but six weeks?
I forced myself to think of the materials I’d read on the plane. Of the trials we’d be working on in the labs.
It will be worth it, I told myself, gathering my courage to step out of the car.
The driver was already standing there with my suitcase in hand, beaming like he’d just dropped me off at a Disneyland resort. “Thanks,” I said, handing him a tip and accepting my luggage. It took everything I had not to run after his cab as it pulled away.
And then there was just silence and the oppressive heat.
I dragged my bag across the cracked asphalt drive, trudging toward the sign marked Office. It took only a few moments to explain who I was and be given a worn brass key, 309 barely legible on the head. My apartment was on an upper floor, but there was no elevator, so I had to drag my suitcase up two flights of creaking stairs, ignoring the way the paint was flaking off.
My hair was plastered to my head and I could barely breathe by the time I got to the top. I looked for a door marked 309, but I couldn’t find it. I stopped dragging my bag and walked back to 305. Following the hall, I passed 306, 307, 308, 306.
Two apartments labeled 306?
I reached out, touching the six and turning it. That seemed like a bad sign. I went back and grabbed my bag, then returned to door 309 and unlocked it, bracing myself for what I’d find.
It was clean, at least. But modest and outdated were putting it kindly. Linoleum stretched across the space, a flowery pattern that went out of style back in the 80s. A laminate counter was chipped around the edges, and one white cabinet door hung slightly askew.
I found the bedroom, tossing my bag down on the comforter. It was probably orange, once, but now it was more like a melted creamsicle.
I sunk onto the mattress, my chest growing tight. I’d given up everything to come here, and I couldn’t help the disappointment that creeping through me. This wasn’t what I’d imagined on the plane.