The Door at the End of the Stars

By K.J. Sutton

Verónica Torres has heard about Hosting along with the rest of the world. In the city of L.A., you can rent your body out for a steep price. During the guest's "stay", Hosts will be blissfully unaware of whatever transpires during that time, and strict rules are in place to protect their body's well-being.

Or that's how it was

• Language: English
• Publisher: Once upon a Time Books
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781088059470

K.J. Sutton

K.J. Sutton lives in Colorado with her two rescue dogs. She has received multiple awards for her work, and she graduated with a master's degree in Creative Writing from Hamline University. K.J. also pens young adult novels as Kelsey Sutton.When she isn't writing in a coffee shop, K.J. spends her time traveling the world and working at a vet clinic. She is best known for her Fortuna Sworn series. Visit her at www.kjsuttonbooks.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

As I wait to sign over my soul, the sound of trickling water drifts through the air.

There are no fountains in the room. There are also no visible speakers, but I know it must be an artificial sound, a deliberate effort to soothe any nervous potentials. I sit in an upholstered chair beside a desk, trying not to fidget. I make sure the tag to the blazer I’m wearing is still out of sight. It’s not the only thing I’ll be returning after this appointment—the black pumps on my feet are above my pay grade, too.

The only item of clothing that truly belongs to me is the tights. They’re the cheap kind that can really only be worn once before they tear, and they’re currently riding up my ass. I never wear shit like this, and I feel like everyone who sees me knows it. Knows that I’m trying to be someone I’m not.

But I need this. My family needs this.

A dark-haired person sits near me, their skin alight with the glow from my file. It shines upward, coming through a slit in the desk. There’s a glinting piece of silver pinned to the left side of their white button-up, the name MAEKO engraved on it. Beneath this, her pronouns are listed. She’s entirely human, a fact I shouldn’t be surprised by—having human employees is either an indication of a poor business or an extremely successful one. These days, real people are trendy or considered a personal touch.

Maeko hasn’t said much beyond a polite greeting and some brief directions as we came to this room. Even when she took my blood, and then plugged the other end of the needle into the reader, she only offered a brief reassurance that I would feel no pain. I’m not sure if her silence is a good thing or a bad thing. Her celpro is on private mode, which makes her even harder to read. I fight the urge to crack my knuckles, a nervous habit that always makes my mother wince and say, Mija, stop that!

When I began the application process, it seemed like I’d be the perfect candidate. As per the program’s many requirements, I have no tattoos, I’ve never done drugs—hard ones, at least—and I don’t use any medications. I’ve never had a child or undergone any kind of surgery. But what if these people, in their shiny, glittering facility, which bears silver letters outside that vaguely read THE HOTEL, only want candidates from certain zip codes? What if they’d made their decision about me the moment I pressed submit?

Or maybe, more likely, my stutter has disqualified me. I made sure to address it within my application, and my speech impediment isn’t because of anything physical. It was diagnosed as psychogenic stuttering, a disorder caused by emotional trauma. It developed when I was fifteen, shortly after I found my father’s body in the garage.

Or what was left of it.

How m-m-many stays did you say a Host is supposed to complete? I ask into the silence, darting a glance around for the hundredth time. A mirror spans the entire length of the wall across from the two of us. Right now it shows a simple scene: the wall behind me, mahogany cabinets, two elegant chairs, and Maeko’s slender back.

Twenty-five, Miss Torres, she answers, shooting me a kind but distracted smile.

Right. Th-thanks. I fold my damp hands together and put them between my knees, resolving to ask the rest of my questions once she’s finished typing. Usually I prefer to communicate over celpro—the implant millions of people now contain within their wrists in place of the cell phones we used to carry around—but that’s generally considered rude when you’re speaking with a stranger. A few more seconds tick by, and as Maeko starts moving her fingers again, I give in to the urge to fidget by crossing my legs. The cushion muffles any sounds, thankfully.

The rest of the room is meant to muffle every other kind of sound, I think to myself. Fear, doubt, uncertainty. The walls are cream, undecorated except for modern light sconces. The floor matches the cupboards, all that wood gleaming, as though it’s polished every day. There are no posters, no warnings, no pamphlets like you might find in a doctor’s office. That invisible water fountain trickles on. The space is appealing, quiet, and pleasant-smelling. Nothing bad happens here, it says.

Maybe that’s why the Hotel requires potential Hosts to come in person. So they can make their pitch as effective as possible.

I don’t mind the strange requirement, though. I don’t like the Hub, or the other side, as most people call it. The Hub is a virtual universe that’s overtaken our world. It’s endless, massive, full of sprawling metropolises and biomes bloated with people wearing avatars as they spend credit or scrabble for coin. Unlike most people, I try to avoid it as much as I can. In theory, it should feel as substantial as reality—eating, dancing, fucking, all the things that make a life—but I’ve never been able to shake the sense there’s something cold about it. Or maybe I’m just biased.

Toward the end, Dad was spending most of his time on the other side. Sometimes I still wonder whether things would’ve turned out differently, if he’d been with us instead of losing himself to the vibrant, false dreams the Hub offers.

Now I’m the one on the verge of losing myself to a dream. Beside me, resting innocently on the desk, is a contract. It’s on paper, along with the elegant folder it’s tucked inside. When Maeko first handed it to me, she called it a welcome packet. It still seems far too convenient that, when she flipped it open to make sure I had everything, she left it open on the page with dollar signs.

For what’s probably the hundredth time in just the half hour I’ve been in this room, I dart a glance at the numbers. They’re in the middle, printed in bold, impossible to miss.

Every stay will earn me $10,000. Which means that, after twenty-five of them, there will be $250,000 in my bank account. That kind of money could change our lives. But it comes with risks, of course—there’s a reason every young person in L.A. isn’t racing to sign up. Some people sustain brain damage during the procedure. Some just never wake up. It’s a gamble with fatal consequences.

If one of those things happened to me, who would help my mom manage the bills? Who would bail Fernanda out in the middle of the night? I stare down at the tiny print, thinking that I should have a lawyer look it over before I sign anything. But I can’t afford one, of course—it’s probably the same for most of the young people coming here. I wonder if the Hotel counts on that.

Suddenly an urge to run grips my bones. I take a breath, digging my fingers into the chair cushion, and the movement draws my gaze back to the reflection across from us.

This time, I focus on the girl who sits beside Maeko. She looks pale and strained. Her hair is long and brown, with a natural wave to it, and thick eyebrows to match. Beneath them, her eyes are dark in both color and worry. Her jaw is graceful and proud. She has a straight, pert nose. Her lips are pink and pretty.

I am striking, and I know it, which is why I’m here.

The thought makes me think of all the men who will undoubtedly notice this face, this body, even when I won’t exactly be able to protect myself. I clear my throat. Wh-when the other p-person—

The guest, Miss Torres, Maeko corrects gently. She keeps typing.

I nod. Right, s-sorry. When the guest is staying with me, they can d-do whatever they w-w-want? Like… h-have sex?

The woman finally pulls away from the desk and angles her petite body towards me. I wonder if she’s truly finished or if she could sense my unease. The guest may engage in any activity that does not put the host in physical danger, Miss Torres, Maeko informs me. However, they may not alter your appearance in any way, which includes piercing and tattoos, or leave the city limits.

What would s-s-stop them from doing all th-that? I ask. A flutter goes through my stomach.

She offers yet another comforting smile. The Host is never alone, actually. Not only will there be someone tracking your vitals and locations, but members of our security team remain nearby, as well. Should the guest ever attempt to act against these regulations, we immediately disconnect them. Security will retrieve your unit, bring it safely back to the Hotel, and begin the revival process. After every stay, once you’re fully conscious, you will have full use of our spa and recovery—

I’m s-s-s-sorry, I don’t m-mean to interrupt, b-but I’m just having trouble… b-b-elieving it. Agitation makes it difficult to speak. Trouble believing that I w-won’t remember a single th-thing when I wake up, I mean.

When I’d done my preliminary research on Hosting, I’d apparently focused too much on the good it was doing, rather than the potential darkness within the process. I’m not sure why I can’t think about anything else now. Maybe none of this felt real before, but here, in this place, it’s like someone screaming the truth in my face.

Please stop apologizing! Maeko says with a tinkling laugh. It sounds rehearsed, somehow. Her silky hair falls over one shoulder as she tilts her head. Answering your questions is exactly why we’re doing this consultation. You’re an excellent candidate for our program—the Hotel is very interested in moving forward with your application.

I a-am? You are? I say. My voice has fallen to an involuntary whisper. Maeko nods, smiling some more.

Holy shit. This could really happen. Suddenly I’m trying to imagine it. My body, wandering around Los Angeles, dancing, laughing, talking… fucking. But what if the guest runs into someone that knows me?

To address your skepticism, Maeko goes on before I can ask, everyone on our staff has experienced the procedure. This is so I can honestly tell you, as someone who’s been through it, that you regain consciousness without a single memory of what occurred during the guest’s stay.

This revelation makes it easier to breathe. After a moment, I shift in the chair again and meet her gaze. There are more questions to ask, but right now, only one fills my throat. Despite the risk, despite the fear, I don’t need to think about whether or not I should say it. I’d like to m-move forward, too. Wh-what’s the n-n-next step?

Maeko flashes yet another white-toothed smile, picks up a pen, and places it on top of the contract.

CHAPTER TWO

My younger sister doesn’t look up when I come into the apartment. A familiar, sickly-sweet smell coils through the air.

Out of habit, I wait to hear the door lock. It makes a trilling sound, then whirs and clicks as multiple deadbolts slide home. The entrance to our apartment is on the second floor, but there’s no form of security here—anyone could walk up those stairs, and they have. Last month, a drug deal went wrong in an apartment just a few doors down from ours. There’s still a piece of crime scene tape sticking to the outside wall, farther down the walkway where someone was killed.

As I pull off my jacket and slip off the soon-to-be-returned heels, my eyes fall to the floor. Next to the shoe stand, there’s an unfortunate vase that bears the marks of Fernanda’s temper. During the height of her addiction, she’d come home high or angry, usually both, and something about the vase drew the focus of her rage. More often than not, she’d give it a vicious kick. Now the broken parts have been glued so many times that it looks like a Picasso painting.

Most people would pick up the pieces and throw them away. I put them back together, though. I’ve never understood how people can decide something is disposable just because of a few imperfections. Most things can be fixed with a little time and effort.

Gunshots explode from the screenpro while I drop my purse onto the counter, toss my keys beside it, and pick up the stack of mail. I’m not surprised to discover that every single one of the envelopes is a bill. For two of them, the words FINAL NOTICE are visible through the thin paper. These days, paper is a luxury, but not when it comes to companies wanting their money. Swallowing a sigh, I put them back and remind myself that everything is about to change. My gaze flits toward the fridge, where Fernanda’s community service form usually hangs. When I realize it’s gone, I turn and walk out of the kitchen.

Fernanda still doesn’t acknowledge me. She’s got a joint in one hand—the source of the smell—and a video game controller in the other. She sits on the living room floor with her back against the couch for support. I sink down onto the cushion behind Fernanda, my body angled toward her.

Did you get your hours in today? I ask over our celpros, trying to keep my voice casual. You know you’re supposed to put the form back on the fridge afterward. We need to see the signature.

No, no, I’m going around, Fernanda says into her headset suddenly, putting the joint down on a plate beside her. She grabs the controller with both hands now, her expression sharp and concentrated. A lazy trail of smoke rises toward the ceiling. Just watch my back.

I’ve learned the hard way that she’ll shut down if I act annoyed or concerned. There’s also the fact that Fernanda sitting on her ass and getting high is better than her old pastimes. Swallowing another sigh, I glance at the violent, blood-spattered game and push myself back up. As I stand, I notice how tidy the apartment is. Every blanket is folded, the tiled floor gleams, and the side tables are clear of clutter. There are other signs that our neighbor was here, like the freshly-washed dishes. I’d bet everything in my checking account, however meager the amount, that there’s leftover tahdig in the fridge. I walk back into the kitchen to check.

Is Mom working? I call to Fernanda, pulling the fridge door open. The suction edges made a crackling sound. I see several Tupperware stacked on the clear shelves.

Thank you, Mrs. Salimi, I think with a rush of appreciation. The mother of three lives beside us, and the only way she allows me to repay her small kindnesses is in the form of babysitting, which I do as often as my work schedule allows.

Sleeping.

If Mom is still sleeping, it probably means she pulled an overnight shift at the diner. It’s a place so rundown that they can’t afford to replace the human employees with AIs. I bite my tongue to hold back a remark on the volume of Fernanda’s game; I still plan to mention the community service form later, and my sister always seems one argument away from storming out of the apartment. Mom and I are both afraid that, someday, she won’t come back.

After reheating the tahdig, I take a fork from the drawer and leave Fernanda to her battles, both on and off the screen.

The automated lights in my room flicker on instantly, illuminating the familiar walls that surround my lumpy twin bed. Posters cover three of them, a folding closet door taking up the fourth. The faces and figures of Misty Copeland, Olga Smirnova, and Tamara Rojo look back at me. Ballet dancers that I’ve worshipped since childhood, all of them long dead, immortalized by their talent. Above the desk, there’s an old map without a frame. But I can still remember what it looked like, before I pawned it for grocery money. Gold, with carvings that looked like flowers.

The room is a far cry from the one I used to have, before Dad died, but it’s become a haven.

Simon—an overweight cat Mom brought home from the Humane Society six months ago—peers up at me from the middle of the bed. I think she adopted him for Fernanda, the real animal lover in the family, but he’s become all of ours. I start toward him at the same moment a chiming sound goes through the stillness. I hold up my wrist and the celpro reads my face. The home screen beams upward, revealing a message from my boyfriend.

Everyone is on for Lou’s.

Shit. Knowing Julián, he’d taken his time telling me, which means I’m probably late already. With a clatter, I abandon the tahdig on the dresser and open a drawer. As I change into a pair of jeans, my glance flicks toward the mirror, thinking to check my makeup. A necessary evil, since I can’t afford the filters in the Hub. But a faded image tucked into the space between glass and wood snags my attention instead.

Hi, Dad, I think, touching his faded cheek with the tip of my finger.

My father was a handsome man. He stares directly into the camera, standing ramrod straight in his uniform—he fought in the Drone Wars. No matter how many AIs or machines there are, the world will always need soldiers. His mouth isn’t smiling, exactly, but the corners of it are tilted in such a way that it seems as though he was tempted to. It’s always looked strange to me, because the man I grew up knowing didn’t smile very often. I’ve often wondered if this picture was taken before the bad things happened.

Studying him, it strikes me all over again like a hammer blow.

Never again will he demand one of our scary movie marathons. Never again will he make me a plate of chilaquiles. Never again will he force the entire family to come together for holiday pictures.

Dad had been the glue, and without him, we’re slowly falling apart.

I watch my eyes darken in the mirror, then shake myself. What is it about today? I haven’t thought this much about Dad in a long time.

Pushing every memory from my mind, I concentrate on adding a fresh dusting of blush to my cheeks and a new layer of lipstick. There’s no time for mascara or eyeliner. I pull off the blazer, and once it’s hanging up in the closet, I reach for the first top I see. A black, long-sleeved shirt with three buttons at the neckline, allowing a tantalizing glimpse of what’s hidden beneath. I fluff my hair and hurry back into the hall.

I’m heading over to Lou’s, I tell Fernanda as I pass her again.

Did you get the job? she calls after me, still not looking away from her game.

I pause in the doorway, frowning. What?

You were at a job interview, right? Did you get it? she asks. Her thumbs work frantically at the buttons on the controller—Fernanda’s game console is several years old, but she’s stuck with it now. Stealing the latest model had been part of what resulted in her court-mandated community service.

The other part had something to do with how high she’d been that night. While drugs were decriminalized years ago, it’s still highly illegal to sell them, which Fernanda tried to do with the AI who arrested her.

Stalling, I reach for my jacket. I still haven’t decided how much to tell my family about the Hosting. It’s looking really good, I think. They’re having me come in for a second interview soon.

Nice, Fernanda says. I start to respond, but she jerks upright, riveted to whatever is happening amongst all those pixels. She releases a string of curses in Spanish. If Mom was asleep before, she certainly isn’t now. Gritting my teeth against a wave of frustration, I retrieve my purse from the counter, pull on my knee-high boots, and walk out. The door locks behind me again.

A light drizzle greets my face when I step outside, startling me since the day began dry and bright. Climate change has made the weather unpredictable. It’s why I bring a jacket everywhere. I pull it tighter around me as I hurry down the stairs. Lou’s isn’t quite within walking distance, but I can’t spare even the amount of money a ride would cost.

Hoping there’s still some deodorant in my purse, I break into a jog. The movement startles a bird taking shelter beneath a bus stop. The small creature takes flight, its wings flapping frantically. Though I don’t break my stride, I follow it with my gaze.

Part of me wishes—just a small part—that I could follow it into the sky and never come back down.

By the time I get to the bar, the rain has stopped and my hair is a frizzy mess. I pull the door open and hurry inside. It’s immediately obvious that I’m the last one to arrive. Well, the last one besides Julián—Ximena and Tom sit in our usual booth while Sahar is at the counter, leaning toward the owner, Vinny.

He’s been running this place for as long as I can remember. He’s wearing his trademark black T-shirt that accentuates the alarming size of his muscles. He nods at something Sahar says, and the stubble on his head catches the light, revealing bits of white and silver. Though the big man is quick to smile, as he does right now when he catches sight of me, locals know not to cross him or get on his bad side. There’s a reason his bar has managed to stay open for so long in L.A.’s most dangerous neighborhood.

Every person in this room grew up in Skid Row. Though we’ve all scattered over the years—my parents moved to a safer neighborhood for a few years, while things were going well for them—we still meet at Lou’s at least once a month. This was the bar where we all had our first drinks. For two of us, it was also the place where we lost our virginity. Not exactly hygienic, but they’re good stories, at least.

Sahar turns toward the booth, a glass of water in hand, and finally spots me. The Christmas lights strewn across the ceiling cast colors over her smooth skin. She flashes a wide, red-lipsticked grin of greeting, revealing the small gap between her two front teeth, and I experience a moment of déjà vu.

It feels like Sahar and I have no beginning—her face fills even my earliest memories. Our mothers met in a hospital waiting room, pregnant with us, and they always say that was the day two friendships were born. After Dad died, Mom moved us back to Skid Row to be closer to them.

Hey, beautiful, Sahar says as I draw closer, chewing a wad of gum. I’ve never seen her wear the same outfit twice. The hardware on her Doc Martens boots echoes the studs on her Valentino crossbody bag. Her legs are encased in floral leggings, paired with a military jacket. Sahar dreams of working in fashion someday, and she always says the first step toward that future is into her own closet.

Another thing she always says is how much she loves the sound of my voice. I know that if I try to communicate over our celpros, Sahar will urge me to speak out loud, so I decide to get it over with.

You look g…g… I start over. You look really pretty t-tonight.

She blows a bubble and it pops with a sharp sound. Why, thank you. I got you a beer. Meet at the booth?

Nodding, I squeeze her arm and move past. Music from the ancient boombox fills my ears as I cross the dim space, walking past the Halloween skeleton that we named Stewart, at some point. Tom, looking very academic with his patched elbows, scoots over to make room for me. Though he’s in his early twenties, like the rest of us, he’s already balding. Wisps of his hair seem to glow from the light bulb dangling over the table. As I watch, smiling fondly, Tom runs a self-conscious hand over his head, putting those wisps back into place.

So? he asks, turning to face me on the hard seat. Did you do it?

I nod at the same time Sahar sets two glasses down and slides in next to Ximena. Do what? she asks, sipping at her water.

Tom answers before I can. Verónica might be one of those Hosts. She went to Beverly Hills today for the interview. Come on, you’ve heard of it. The platform is like Airbnb, except for your body. They’ve been talking about it all over the news.

It’s m-more c-c-omplicated than th-th-that, I retort, wishing I’d told Tom to keep the consultation quiet. My mouth is tight as I reach across the table and claim the pint still in front of Sahar.

I don’t know what surprises me more, the dragon giving you a day off or that you actually went to this interview, Sahar remarks. Are you seriously thinking about doing it?

I don’t know. M-maybe. I pretend to be absorbed in taking a drink, but really, I don’t want to see her face on the chance I see judgment there. Some people view Hosting as another form of prostitution. The basic concept still applies—money changing hands to use someone else’s body.

Sahar sets down her glass with a hard sound, and I force myself to meet her gaze. Here it comes, I think. Okay, but let’s be real for a second, she says, glaring now. The only reason someone would want to rent your body is to play out their kinkiest, darkest fantasies. No offense, Ronnie, but you’re one of the most sheltered people I know. You can’t just go from zero to a hundred like that.

I won’t h-have the m-m-memories, I tell her. She just shakes her head and takes another drink. She doesn’t say anything else, but I know this isn’t the last I’ve heard of it. Tension floats between us, and I hear the strain in my own voice as I ask, Can we t-talk about something e-else?

Tom, wearing a sheepish look, finally intervenes. I second that. Ximena? How did your audition go?

Ximena looks up from her celpro, the screen casting pale light over her smooth cheeks. Her low, lilting voice floats through the air. I’m thinking about redoing my résumé, is all she says.

Her celpro is set to public, which allows outsiders to see the file she’s staring at. Ximena De León, it says in cursive print at the top. Below this, there’s a picture. Though it’s a simple headshot, the quality makes it clear these were professionally done. Ximena, of course, looks beautiful. She stares directly into the camera with her wide, dark eyes. Her skin is flawless. Her hair—a straight, dark curtain—falls over one bare shoulder. The rest of the space is taken up by a bulleted list of her experience. It’s a short list.

Well? she asks, watching me with an unfathomable expression. Any insights?

If Sahar is sound and colors, Ximena is whispers and pastels. No less noticeable and just as alluring, even if she keeps her thoughts tucked away most of the time. She and I met in kindergarten, but even now, so many years and memories later, Ximena still feels like a mystery sometimes. Did you include that y-you were Juliet once? I ask.

She sighs and shakes her head. That was in high school, Ronnie.

I still th-think it counts. You were a-amazing.

Ximena gives me a smile that says she doesn’t agree, but there’s soft affection in the curve of her perfect lips. After that, she twists in the seat and looks at Sahar. Hey, you never finished telling me about that guy.

What guy? my best friend asks with a bewildered frown. In the next moment, her confusion clears. Oh, god, do you mean David? I told you that I was done with him. I have no tolerance for cheaters. It’s the biggest asshole move a person can make. There’s no possible justification for stringing someone along while you fuck somebody else.

Hey, guys, sorry I’m late, a voice says behind me, slightly breathless. A familiar cologne stuffs itself up my nostrils. I turn around, already smiling, but there’s a heavy feeling of uncertainty in my chest.

Julián! the others chorus.

Once, hearing my boyfriend’s name would have caused a riot of flutters and heat. Now I just think of last night, when Julián rolled off me, upset that I hadn’t come. Again. I laid there, trying not to cast a frustrated glance at the nightstand drawer, where a small purple vibrator is hidden beneath an unpaid energy bill.

We met in high school. I was sixteen, and he was seventeen. Despite his popularity and swagger, I hadn’t noticed Julián Delgado in the slightest. But then, a week into the school year, I closed my locker after my last class of the day… and there he was. Even now, the image is vivid in my mind, like a snapshot. He leaned against the locker beside mine with the self-assurance of a cute boy.

Hey, beautiful, he said.

Two words. That was all it took. Two such simple words, and from that moment on, I was his.

I’m not sure when things between us began to change. I’m not certain if it came from me, or him, or both of us. What I do know is that lately, Julián feels a thousand miles away even when he’s standing right beside me.

It’s just a rough patch, I remind myself, clutching my glass tighter. Every couple goes through rough patches.

Tom slides out and drags a chair over, seating himself at the edge of the table now. I move over automatically. As he claims his usual spot, Julián brushes a kiss against my temple and takes a gulp from his beer. I catch a girl across the room staring at him—not only is my boyfriend tall, but he has thick, dark hair and a white smile.

All right, what did I miss? Julián asks, resting his elbow on the table.

After that, the rest of the evening passes in a cozy, familiar haze. With every hour that ticks by, more empty glasses litter the surface between us. Tom talks about the new class he’s teaching at the community college, then Sahar regales us with a story from her job in retail. Julián’s laugh sounds in my ear again and again. His arm rests on the back of the booth, brushing against me now and then. The scene feels like a movie I’ve seen a thousand times before. Vinny comes by with a surprise round of shots, and as we take it, he takes our picture. A picture we’ve taken a thousand times before.

As always, Ximena is the first to leave. She exercises every morning, without fail, and she’s adamant about getting eight hours of sleep beforehand. The rest of us, too, finish our drinks and stand up. Next to the table, Julián and I face each other—it’s only the third time our gazes have met since he got here. Oblivious to my shadowed thoughts, Julián flashes his dimpled grin. Hey, it’s good to see you, Torres.

The warmth in his voice thaws my heart. Walk me h-home? I ask, even though I know he plans to.

Julián starts to answer, but Sahar throws her arms around me in a rush of color and perfume. Sweet dreams, you lovely creature. If you think our earlier conversation is over, think again.

I open my mouth to respond. Before I can say anything, she flounces away. When she reaches the other side of the bar, she blows me a kiss and pushes the door open. A breeze lifts the ends of her hair as she vanishes from sight.

Her reminder causes another wave of anxiety to crash over me; I’ve been nervous all day about the prospect of letting someone else make use of my body, and my friends’ comments hadn’t exactly been reassuring. There must be something strange in my expression, because Julián tilts his head and looks at me more closely. Is everything okay, babe?

Knowing Julián and his easygoing approach to just about everything—too easygoing, most days—I’ve been hoping he won’t be bothered by the idea of his girlfriend being a Host. He knows more about my family’s financial struggles than anyone else in our circle. Even Sahar isn’t fully aware of how bad our situation has gotten. There’s something I n-need to talk to y-you about, actually, I begin.

A girl has spotted our booth and realized we’re leaving. She calls to her friends. Julián tucks my hand into the crook of his arm and says, We should probably get out of their way.

I nod, allowing him to pull me, and we start walking toward the exit. Julián slaps a tip onto the bar as we pass, grinning at Vinny, who flicks his damp towel in our direction. A moment later, we reach the door, and Julián holds it open. I smile at him and step into the fresh air. A siren wails in the distance. I pause on the sidewalk to wait for Julián, who’s calling something back at Vinny. The sky is completely dark, and for an instant I find myself longing to see stars. I’ve only ever seen them on screens or in the Hub.

What do you need to talk about? Julián asks, rejoining me. I’m slow to respond, and he misinterprets my hesitation as confusion. Back there, in the bar, you said you needed to talk.

Right, y-yeah. We start walking. I put my hands in my pockets, and with every step, our elbows touch. Julián waits for me to continue, and once again, the silence between us feels thick with awkwardness. But I force myself to speak, because I’ve never kept anything from Julián and if I start now, I’m worried more cracks will form in the foundation of us. I take a breath and plunge, I went through the Hotel’s application p-process… and I m-met all their qualifications. I’m g-going to be a Host.

There’s a pause. Julián frowns, his dark eyes falling to the sidewalk as he thinks. The Hotel? Isn’t that the company facing a ton of lawsuits right now? People have died.

Damn it. I’d been hoping he wouldn’t remember that part. Sometimes Julián surprises me by actually paying attention. There’s nothing I can say to reassure him—I’m taking a risk, there’s no denying it—so I muster another weak smile. Well, either w-way, my family will b-be taken care of. If I die, they c-can sue the Hotel and live off the s-s-settlement.

Hilarious. Have you talked to your mom about this? Julián asks.

Anxiety feels like a living thing in my stomach. Not y-yet. She’d only try to t-talk me out of it, and I’ve already made up my m-mind. I’m doing this, Julián. We can’t keep g-going the way we have. Something has to ch-change.

If you need more money, I’ll get another job, he argues.

It has the cadence of an argument fought so many times it feels like a song. I resist the urge to sing the words as I reply, right on cue, You’ve already g-got a full class load and t-two jobs. Besides that, I can’t take y-your paychecks, Julián.

Usually he has an immediate retort ready, but this time, my boyfriend is silent. I glance at him sharply, and I’m about to open my mouth when Julián’s eyes go to his wrist. He raises it and the blurred image of a face appears in the air. Hola, Mamá, he says. ¿Que paso?

His celpro is on private mode, preventing me from hearing his mother’s response. We keep walking as the two of them go back and forth. Every other person on the street is gazing at their celpros, too, but I study them instead. At their faces and their movements. It becomes a dance, of sorts. A story. While I wait for Julián to finish, a ballet forms in my head, and I ache to be somewhere I can perform the movements.

We reach my family’s apartment building at the same moment Julián says goodbye to Pilar. He stops at the door and turns to me. An autocar whirs past. As his mouth opens, I already know Julián is leaving.

Look, I need to get back. There’s some drama going down. Can I see you tomorrow? he asks, giving me a distracted smile.

To my surprise, I feel a faint pang of disappointment, one that I haven’t experienced in a long time. Within moments, though, it fades into nothing. Even if he had been able to stay, it wouldn’t matter, anyway—Julián only spends the night when Mom isn’t home. Though my mother knows I’m no virgin, she’s a devout Catholic and forbids premarital sex in the apartment. When she’s there to stop it, at least.

Ronnie? Julián says. He sounds worried now.

Do you ever wish we could be kids again? I want to ask him. Do you ever wish we could be those lovesick teenagers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other?

Out loud I say, "Absolutely. Good night, mi amor. I l-love you."

Love you, too. Julián kisses me, firm and swift, then he’s off. Always moving, always making new plans before he’s finished the old ones. A breeze stirs my hair as I stand there and watch him go, feeling like this is a moment even more familiar than his arrival at the booth.

When my boyfriend is no more than a dark silhouette, shrinking with each passing moment, I turn away. Silence fills the air, broken only by the faint sounds of our neighbors, and I finally hold my celpro in front of the reader.

The lock clicks, and I slip inside, inhaling the scent of burning candles—Fernanda’s way of covering up the joints she’s been smoking. Mom never says anything when she sees it happening, but her eyes always fill with shadows, something Fernanda and I try fervently to avoid. This time, my sister isn’t sitting in the living room when I enter the apartment. The far wall is dark and blank. But I see, when I reach the hallway, that a light glows beneath her bedroom door. The sight of it is comforting, somehow.

My mother’s room is at the end of the hall. Most of the time, I can’t bring myself to wake her. I haven’t seen her in a few days, though, and I miss the sound of her voice. I poke my head into the darkness. The only source of light comes from Mom’s humidifier, which casts a blue glow over everything.

Before I can say anything, she lifts her head and squints at me. "Ronnie? It’s good to see you, cariño, my mother says sleepily. Fernanda said you had an interview. How did it go?"

Like Sahar, she prefers it when I talk out loud, so I resist the urge to switch back to my celpro.

Good. Really, really g-good, I answer, perching on the edge of the mattress. The air smells like her favorite perfume. Like crushed flowers. I find Mom’s hand on top of the bedspread, lace our fingers together, and hold them against my cheek. How are you d-doing?

The room is