I feel like I’ve entered an oven as I step off the Greyhound bus. The Phoenix heat scorches my lungs and stings my eyes. It’s nine o’clock in the evening; I can’t imagine what it’s like during the day when the sun is out. I stop on the sidewalk, trying to get my bearings, and I’m bumped from behind by a large man that grunts at me and forcefully nudges me out of his way. Palm trees line the city street in front of me, and there is a small line of taxis parked in front of the dimly lit station. With the little money I have, I know I’ll be taking a city bus and not a taxi.

I run my finger over the scribbled address on the crumpled paper before tucking it safely back into my pocket. With no plan and no idea where I’m staying tonight, I stand in line at the one open window at the ticket counter. A light sheen of sweat blankets my face, and I’m thinking that wearing jeans on a thirty-nine-hour bus ride to Phoenix in the middle of June probably wasn’t the best idea. I’m sticky and uncomfortable and just want a shower and sleep.

The man in front of me steps away from the window, and I approach nervously. The woman behind the counter is old and short, wearing thick eyeglasses and a pair of pants that are about two sizes smaller than she needs. She doesn’t make eye contact with me, but barks questions and commands in her raspy smoker’s voice. “Next. Step up. Where’re you goin’?”

She punches the keys on the dirty keyboard in front of her. I clear my throat and step closer so she can hear me. “I don’t know.” My voice is weak, timid.

“Well, how can I help you if you don’t know where you’re going?” Her tone is condescending. She looks up from her keyboard and meets my eyes indifferently.

“I just got off that bus.” I point toward the oversized silver bus that is sitting at the curb. “I’m staying here in Phoenix, but I just need a recommendation for a safe place to stay that’s in my price range.”

Her shoulders fall, and an audible sighs escapes her mouth as she studies me. “Anything affordable isn’t going to be safe,” she grumbles. “Where are you from?”

“White Lake, Illinois.”

“Figures,” she mumbles under her breath as she looks me up and down from head to toe before typing away on her keyboard again. “Look, I don’t know what your budget is, but here’s a list of motels that start at thirty a night and go up to a hundred. Stay off of Van Buren, girl; they’d eat you alive over there.” She chuckles to herself and shoves three pieces of paper at me under the slat in the glass window.

“Thank you.” I smile at her politely and take the papers. Standing underneath the street light, I sort through them, then move toward the bus stop with the one bag I brought. It holds three changes of clothes, a notebook, three books, and my wallet. That’s all I own. The few items I left behind were of little to no value to me and would’ve been more weight to worry about.

I sit nervously on the scorching metal bench and wait, adrenaline coursing through me. Using the large map on the side of the bus shelter, I mentally jot down the three buses it’ll take to get me to the strip of motels that hopefully will have a cheap room available for a few days. When the bus pulls up to the curb, I get on and deposit my money before taking a seat in the middle of the mostly empty space.

Public transportation is alike in most cities, as well as the people who ride it—you can see the exhaustion written across their faces. I lean my head against the window and focus on the passing cars and businesses as we snake through the dark streets of Phoenix. An hour and two transfers later, I arrive at my final stop. Pulling the straps of my bag onto my shoulder, I step off and out onto the dark street.

I can see the signs for the motels just ahead, about two and a half blocks away. Walking briskly toward the bright signs, I keep my eyes glued to my destination. A bed and a shower are so close that I can almost feel my sore muscles begin to relax. The motels are just off a major interstate and sit along a service road. There’s a lot of traffic, which makes me more comfortable in this foreign city. As the lights get closer, I finally step off the sidewalk and across the black asphalt parking lot toward the small building. A neon light flashes the word “office,” and I increase my speed, jetting through the parked cars. Even in the evening you can feel the summer heat penetrating the surface of the blacktop, right through my sandals. I wriggle my toes against the thin soles of my shoes.

When I push the glass door open, I’m greeted with a blast of cool air. For the first time in an hour, I feel like I can breathe and my lungs respond with a deep inhale. I take a couple of deep breaths, then tilt my face up toward the air conditioning vent in the ceiling, hoping it dries the sweat on my face.

“Can I help you?” an older man with gray hair asks as he steps out from behind a closed door.

I startle. “Hi. Um. Yes. I need a room for a couple of nights.”

“Two?” He takes me in, glancing over the rim of his glasses before looking back to his computer.

“Yes, just two nights for now, please.”

“You from around here?” he inquires.

“No.” I swallow. “Illinois.”

“I’ll need your license and credit card.”

“I have a picture ID and cash.” Please let that be enough. I can’t imagine trying to find another place now. I reach into my bag to pull out my wallet.

He pauses and looks over the counter at me. “We don’t do cash business here. I’ve been working real hard to clean this place up.” He pauses and looks me over again.

“I don’t have a credit card,” I stutter, as panic sets in.

He exhales loudly and stares at me, his eyes becoming sympathetic. “For cash, it’ll be one hundred and fifty dollars.”

I swallow hard. All I have is two hundred dollars and that won’t get me back to Illinois if things don’t go well here. “Uh…” I turn and look out the large glass windows to the motel next door, the vacancy sign flashing bright in the dark. I wonder if it’s any cheaper. It’s rundown and dingy—more so than this Motel 6, and it’s getting late. I fidget nervously, trying to make up my mind.

“Okay.” I turn back and smile at him. I pull the cash from my wallet, count out the one hundred fifty, and slide it across the counter.

He prints me out a receipt that I shove in my bag and slides a key card across the counter. “I don’t want any trouble here. You look like a good girl. Go to your room and stay there,” he says, and retreats back behind the closed door he had come from just a few minutes earlier.

A sticky note stuck to the front of the keycard states that I’m in room one hundred forty-three. I pull the straps from my bag a little higher on my shoulder and step back out into the hot, heavy air. Following the sidewalk that winds around the parking lot, I walk briskly as the numbers on the doors ascend.

There’s a group of four men outside one of the rooms, smoking and laughing, and my heart rate increases. Leave me alone, just leave me alone. But as I approach, they all fall silent. Stepping around them, I keep my eyes focused on the sidewalk. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, and my pace quickens as I glance again at the numbers.

127…129…

135…137…139…

My panic begins to ease slightly. Only three doors away. Chancing a quick glance over my shoulder, I hear the squeaky hinges of a door opening just as I run square into the person exiting. I startle and try to step back as I begin apologizing profusely, but firm hands grip my shoulders, not allowing me to move.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp. The keycard falls from my hand and lands at the feet of the man I nearly ran over. Looking down, my eyes take in his expensive black shoes, the keycard resting on the ground just in front of him.

His hands release my shoulders, and I lunge for the keycard, but he’s too quick, reaching down and picking it up before I can get to it. His tan fingers wrap around the cheap plastic as he stands up. In shock for a moment, I finally pull myself up and meet his amber eyes.

“Are you okay?” He narrows his honey-colored eyes on me, and I take in his gray dress pants, black shirt, no tie. His hair is short, but slightly wispy on top—a little messy, not perfectly in place. His skin is golden brown, as if he’s been on a tropical vacation. His tan skin makes those amber eyes pop against his dark eyelashes. His square jaw is sprinkled with just enough hair to show he hasn’t shaved today, but it’s his dimples that take my breath away. He’s so well put together I’d guess he was in his thirties. He may be the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on, but he screams money, power—danger.

“Are you okay?” he asks again, tilting his head at me as I drink him in.

“Oh, um…yes, sorry…just nervous.” I look away from him and down to my fidgeting hands.

He glances behind me at the men on the sidewalk and then back to me as if piecing things together. “Are they harassing you?” He gestures with his head.

“No.” I shake my head. “I’m just tired. It’s been a really long day. I’m sorry I bumped into you,” I say timidly. I extend my hand, palm up in an unspoken gesture for him to return my keycard. My hand shakes as he looks between the card in his hand and me. His thumb flicks at the little yellow sticky note before he turns around and walks toward the door marked one hundred forty-three. He inserts the keycard and pushes the door open, holding it for me.

My heart stammers in my chest as I approach cautiously. I notice the expensive watch on his wrist, which peeks out from his dress shirt, and the light, luxurious smell of what can only be designer cologne. The scent paralyzes me—so intoxicating that I want to press my face to his neck and breathe him in.

Everything inside me—my good sense, my gut—screams at me not to walk toward that door, but I go against my better judgment. In three quick strides, I’m standing at the open door to my motel room as his amber eyes follow me. Brushing against him, I slide by and reach for the lights on the wall just inside the door. Only a small bedside lamp illuminates the room. I notice the musty smell as I glance around at the old furniture.

“Close this door and lock it,” he says, pulling the keycard from the door. He steps just over the threshold and into the room, reaching out to me with the keycard. “Don’t open this door for anybody. Understand?”

I swallow hard and nod. His fingers are warm against my palm as he places the keycard in my hand. My fingers instinctively close and trap his hand in mine. Rooted in place, he scans the room as if searching for something or someone. With no other words of warning or even a goodbye, he pulls his hand free and steps back through the door, closing it behind him with a loud bang.

Did that just happen?

I scramble across the old stained blue carpet to the large window. Leaning across a small table, I pull down one of the slats of the cheap metal blinds to look for the beautiful stranger. I easily find him standing just outside my door, his mobile phone pressed to his ear. His full lips barely move as he speaks into the slim phone. Catching my breath, I let go of the blinds and move quickly back to the door, at first fumbling with, but eventually inserting the chain lock just as he instructed. Glancing through the peephole, I watch him step away, then I lean back against the door, closing my eyes and burning the memory of his face into my brain.

It takes me a few minutes to remember why I came here in the first place—bed and shower. But a shower will have to wait. Exhausted does not describe how I’m feeling. I strip down to my panties and bra and pull the covers back on the double bed as I slide in. The mattress is lumpy, but better than the one I slept on at home. I lay in the eerie silence for a few minutes, the stranger’s words of warning on repeat in my head. My heart is beating wildly, and I don’t understand why. I don’t even know this guy, but he ignited a feeling deep inside me—a feeling I thought I’d never feel again. Men were trouble for us Adams women—they had a tendency to skip town to chase their dreams and leave behind broken hearts. I sigh deeply as images of the beautiful man flash through my head. And even though I’m drained, it still takes a few minutes to calm down before I finally fall into a deep sleep.

* * *

I sit up straight out of a dead sleep when I hear the banging on my door. I glance at the old alarm clock on the bedside table as it flashes three thirty-seven a.m. My heart is pounding with fear, and my mouth instantly dries. Who the hell could it be? I scurry from the bed to look through the peephole. It’s still dark outside, and I can feel the hot Phoenix air pushing its way through the flimsy motel door. Three Hispanic men are standing just outside, and the older man in the front pounds on my door again, startling me. I hear the squeaky hinges from the room next door open and the three men laugh as they step away from my door and move toward the one that just opened. They’re speaking Spanish. The sound of those squeaky hinges and the thud of a door closing tell me they’ve entered the room and found who they were looking for—not me.

Thank God.

I take a step back and lean against the rough-textured wall as I try to calm down. Drops of sweat roll down my temples, and I realize for the first time how hot it is in this room, even though the old air conditioner is rattling away. Pushing myself off the wall, I walk to the small unit and turn the knob to “high.” I let the cool air blow directly on my face. It does little to break the heat in the room. Grabbing my bag from the table, I head to the bathroom to shower. My heart is still racing a million miles an hour; there’s no way I’ll be able to go back to sleep.

The bathroom is smaller than the one Mom and I had in our trailer. There’s an extra small sink, a toilet, and a shower so tiny there’s hardly room to turn around in it. I reach in and turn the water to cold, but even the cold water here is scalding hot. The showerhead is so low the water sprays my chest instead of my head. Lowering myself to wet my hair, I use the small bottle of shampoo that the motel supplied and lather it into my hair. There’s no conditioner, so I’ll have to fight with the tangles in my long hair. I’m used to this. Even at home, conditioner was a rarely seen luxury. The once white washcloth left for me is stained a dingy shade of grey, but it’s the least of my concerns. I quickly wash and rinse my body of the sudsy soap. Drying off, I send a quiet prayer to my mom. She wouldn’t approve of me doing this, but I have no other options—I have no one.

The girl in the mirror looks back at me. She looks so lost, and I chuckle at the thought of my lost hopes and dreams. What are those? I can’t even remember. I had wanted to study law, maybe become a lawyer. That was before I realized we were dirt poor, and I had to take care of my depressed mother. We had no car, barely had food, and most of that was given to me by Mr. O’Sullivan, my manager at the grocery store.

Everyone compliments me and tells me I’m beautiful, but I just don’t see it. I’m tall and lanky with mousy, light brown hair. My eyes are hazel; sometimes brown and sometimes green—but always dull, tired, and lifeless. I’m sure if I cared about my appearance, I could make myself look decent. But at home my only concern was working enough hours to keep the shitty trailer and taking a class or two at the community college so that I could eventually consider going to law school.

When Carter was cleaning out the trailer after my mom died, he found a small notebook with my dad’s name and information in it. When he handed it to me, he did so with hesitation. Everyone in White Lake knew my father, but no one talked about him. I’d heard he was an only child and that his parents had moved away when I was just a baby. The one time I asked about him, when I was around sixteen, my mom told me he bailed on her after she told him she was pregnant with me. And by bailed, I mean he moved away for college to chase his dreams, and my mom stayed behind in White Lake to raise me. She said he was three years older than she was, and in college, and that’s where the conversation ended. Now I have his name, and with the help of the computer and librarian at the public library, I have an address—here in Phoenix.

I sit at the small table in the room, dressed and waiting for the sun to come up. Pulling out the paper map that I got on the city bus last night, I map out the route to my dad’s house. He lives in North Central Phoenix. It’ll take two buses with one transfer, an easy trip from here, so I relax a little as the sun begins to peek through the blinds at around a quarter to six. I stuff the book I was trying to read back into my bag and pull out my wallet. Not wanting to leave my bag in the open, I shove it in the top drawer of the rickety, faux wood dresser and take a deep breath.

Time to go meet my father.

Thirty-five minutes and two buses later, I’m standing at the corner of an intersection in a gorgeous neighborhood full of massive ranch homes. Downtown Phoenix rests in the backdrop behind these perfectly manicured lawns. I walk the winding neighborhood streets to the address scribbled on the piece of paper that I’m clutching in my hand.

The area is quiet as I stroll nervously toward the house at the end of the street. I recheck the address. This is it. The house is gorgeous; stucco with stone columns that create an enormous front porch. A black Mercedes Benz SUV sits in the driveway and giant clay pots full of colorful flowers line the paved sidewalk that leads to the front door. Hesitantly, I walk up the flagstone sidewalk and stand just outside the enormous wood door. My heart races as my fingers hover over the doorbell before I finally press it and take a step back. I take a few deep breaths, willing myself to calm down when I hear the shuffling of footsteps. My mind races with fear and unanswered questions. Will he know I’m his daughter? What will he look like? Do I look like him? With the click of the deadbolt, the front door swings open.

I gasp. There’s no mistaking that the man who greets me is my father. His hazel eyes meet mine, and I can’t help but notice how tall he is, like me. He has to be at least six foot four and fit. He is lean but muscular. I can see his build easily through his fitted dress shirt and tie. He has dark brown hair with a sprinkling of gray along each temple. In his suit, he looks every part the distinguished businessman I assumed he’d be—everything my mom was not.

“Can I help you?” His voice is hoarse, and he clears his throat as I stand and take in my father. His eyes narrow slightly as if he might see a hint of recognition.

“Hi,” I mumble as I wipe my hands on the bottom of my dress. Realizing how ridiculous I must look, I pretend I’m smoothing out the skirt rather than wiping my sweaty hands. “Um, I’m Emilia.”

“Emilia?” He tilts his head and studies me.

“Yeah, Emilia,” I repeat. He genuinely has no idea who I am. “Oh God, you didn’t even know my name?” I drop my eyes. He opens the door wider and steps out onto the front porch as if to get a better look at me. Finally, his eyes widen in recognition, and then he glances around as if looking for someone else.

“She died two months ago,” I whisper. He inhales sharply. “I’m sorry to stop by like this, but I didn’t have your number, and honestly, I didn’t know if you’d want to see me…but…” I fidget with the hem of my dress as I stumble over my words.

He stands firm and watches me. His jaw muscles tighten as his eyes take me in from head to toe—judging me. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. “How did she die?” he asks me quietly as he glances over my shoulder, scanning the street behind me.

“Suicide.” I answer him like it’s something he should know. But he wouldn’t know. He didn’t know anything about her life, about our life after he left. He nods his head. “I don’t have anyone now that she’s gone, and I just wanted…”

“You need to leave.” His tone is firm and commanding, but not loud. “Now.”

Leave? I’m completely caught off guard, and I struggle to speak. Tears burn at the back of my eyes, and I instantly feel my chin begin to tremble. “I came all the way from Illinois. Can we just talk for a few minutes? Please.”

He shakes his head once. “Now is not a good time.”

“When will be a good time?” I ask quickly, in a panic, as he backs toward his front door.

“I don’t know. Please don’t stop by unannounced again,” he says before promptly closing the large front door with a loud bang.

Tears fall as my throat tightens and a quiet sob escapes. I wipe my cheeks as I step back off the front porch and stumble my way down the driveway. I don’t want him to see me crying. I never needed my father growing up. As much as I wanted him, and as much as I’d like to say I don’t need him now, I do. Disappointment and hurt fill the space in my heart that I opened up to love my father.

My heart beats rapidly as I retrace my steps back those couple of blocks to the bus stop. The day they wheeled Mom out of our trailer was the loneliest I’ve ever felt—until today. Until right now. Knowing that you have a parent that is alive but rejects you—wants nothing to do with you—has to be the loneliest feeling in the world. But to have your own flesh and blood deny you is definitely the most hurtful. Even when my mom was lost in her world of depression, she still loved and wanted me. We had nothing, but she gave me love. It was all she gave, and yet I miss it. God, I miss it…I miss her.