“Keys,” he demands, his palm up as he shoots me a look that is, like so many things, non-negotiable.
I pull my keys from my satchel and hand them to him, still not quite sure what his deal is.
“Stay here,” he orders, why would I expect anything else.
“This is my—“
But he’s already gone, entering my tiny apartment and looking around as if he’s searching for bombs, booby traps, or a hidden intruder.
He squats down and looks under the bed.
“Where are your sheets?”
“I haven’t got around to getting any yet,” I admit, laying out some bath towels next to each other, my current substitute for a proper flat bed sheet.
“Not even one to cover yourself up?”
“It’s Miami. It’s hot.”
“You don’t run the aircon at night?”
“It’s under repair.”
I watch as his fists tighten so hard his knuckles go white and his corded forearms shake. “Does the landlord live on site?”
“No.”
“What about a phone number for him?”
“He said he prefers email.”
“He didn’t give you a phone number?”
“He said it’s a transcription service and will send him an email, so it’s easier just to email him in the first place as that’s what he’s going to get anyway.”
“How much did the company advance you?”
“It was a generous amount. Enough for—“
“How much, Scarlett?” he asks, addressing me by my name for the first time.
“Three thousand.”
“Three thousand? For Miami?”
“It covered first month’s, last month’s rent, and I negotiated down the security deposit so everything fit.”
“I’m talking to payroll first thing in the morning when we get in.”
“We?”
“Let’s go. Get your pajamas and we’re out of here.”
“Where? You can’t just take me.”
“I can and I am. My place.”
“What if I don’t want to go to—“