Austin was hot as balls. I yanked my broken suitcase towards the doors of the Driskill Hotel, sweating like a sinner in church. Maybe I could afford a new one after this assignment. A fancy suitcase, with actual wheels and a zipper that didn’t need to be duct taped to stay closed.

“It’s got personality,” I could hear my mom say. It had been a gift from her. A really good find in her favorite thrift store in South Houston.

“Inanimate objects should not have personality,” I muttered to myself. “Personality is just another word for cheap.” I was tired of things with personality. I wanted something with class. With style.

The whoosh of the automatic doors greeted me, as did the orgasmic rush of A/C that filled the hotel lobby. I let out a whistle under my breath. It was the most beautiful hotel I had ever seen—gleaming white floors, a chrome staircase curving down the middle, and above me, a beautiful crystal chandelier. The Register had spared no expense with this trip—a hotel with A/C and a chandelier? I had arrived.

Now I just needed to make sure I stayed arrived. I had worked too damn hard to get to where I was, I needed to knock this interview out of the park and prove to them that I was worthy of the promotion they had given me. Perhaps my future held more than just a new suitcase.

I was dragging my old one towards the front desk when my phone—also in desperate need of an update—rang. I fished it out of my pocket. Nick. Of course. He probably wanted to know where the peanut butter was. I ignored it and flashed the patent “I might be annoying, but I’m also adorable” smile at the hotel clerk. Something else I had gotten from my mother.

“Welcome, ma’am,” he said with a lovely twang. He looked barely eighteen, with puberty’s last zits fading on his chin. Not that I really could talk; I had just turned twenty-three and was practically an infant to most of my co-workers, who had been reporters for the length of my entire life.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

I opened my mouth and my phone rang. Loudly. Nick again. I switched it to vibrate, put it in my pocket and turned back to the clerk.

“Checking in,” I said. “Sophie Hall.”

“Of course, Ms. Hall,” the clerk said. His nametag said Greg. “We’ve been expecting you.”

My phone vibrated.

“Sorry,” I pulled it from my pocket, doing the obnoxious “one minute” finger that I had hated being on the other end of during my years as a waitress. I knew it was rude to answer the phone, but I didn’t think Nick was going to stop calling. “It’s on the top shelf,” I said, as my greeting. Might as well get to the point as quickly as possible.

“Sophie.” Nick’s usual baritone voice took on a high-pitched whine through my beat-up phone speakers. I winced. I definitely needed a new phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Austin, Nick,” I said, trying to control my frustration. This happened each time I had to go somewhere for an assignment. “I told you three times. And I left you a note. Two notes actually.”

“Why are you in Austin?”

“I’m interviewing Nathan Ryder,” I told him patiently. “The Longhorns’ star player, remember? Houston boy? The one who’s probably heading to the majors next year?”

I was sure he wouldn’t know what I was talking about. Nick didn’t know anything about sports. If it didn’t play an instrument he wasn’t interested.

“But my band is playing tonight,” he said and this time the whine wasn’t just from the phone.

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry I can’t be there, but this is a really important assignment.”

He sighed. It was one of his specialty guilt sighs. I hated it, especially since I was pretty sure he had learned it from my mom even though they had never met. We’d been together for six months and this was the first time I was missing one of his shows. Sometimes I was the only person in the audience, which is probably why it was so vital I was there. But I was not going to give up this important opportunity to listen to the same five songs. Not this time.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, not sure if he had hung up on me or fallen asleep. It was two in the afternoon, which was pretty early for him. When I had left the apartment several hours ago, he had still been sleeping. He looked so handsome when he was sleeping, all tousled hair and sexy cheekbones.

“I just don’t think this is working,” he said.

“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, much louder than I had intended. The clerk, who been looking down at his computer politely, raised his eyebrows. I turned away from the desk, dragging my suitcase behind me, and I ducked out of the way of the people milling in the lobby. Somehow I ended up behind an enormous potted plant.

“I just don’t think we should be together anymore,” he said. “I really need someone who can be supportive of my musical career.”

“I am supportive,” I said. “I just can’t be there tonight.”

He sighed again and I wanted to punch him through the phone.

“It’s just not working,” he said, and I immediately went from mild annoyance to full-on anger.

“No,” I said between gritted teeth. “You know what’s not working. You. You haven’t had a job since you moved in three months ago. Who is going to pay your rent, Nick? Who is going to pay for gas so you can get to your rehearsals and gigs? Who is going to buy you the peanut butter you can’t find even though it’s on the same fucking shelf every fucking time?”

His struggling artist thing had been appealing when we first met. Before landing my job at the paper, I had been freelance writing and working nights at the coffee shop he frequented. He played with his band, but also worked at the hardware store, which I had found really attractive. Nothing like a guy who can hang a shelf for you. And that’s what he would do. At first. He repaired everything in my shoddy apartment when he had his own place; it was only after he moved in, after I got a desk at the Register, that he quit the hardware store to focus on his music full time.

“Your negativity is really impacting my work,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, my head now aching. I didn’t have the time or the energy to argue with him. “But you better be out of the apartment when I get back.”

“About that,” he said. “You’re being evicted.”

“What?!” Half the lobby turned in the direction of my shriek. I yanked my suitcase closer to me and crouched closer to the plant. “Evicted?” I asked, lowering my voice.

“Yeah.” I could hear the snap of a lighter and then the deep inhale that indicated he was smoking. Of course. Of course he was high right now. That was another thing that had changed when he moved in. Guess it had been easier to ignore how often he was high when I only saw him after shows.

“Nick!” I snarled. “Why am I being evicted?”

“Some guy came by and said you hadn’t paid rent in like, three months.”

“What? That’s impossible. I give you the rent check every month…” Fuck. Of course. I had given Nick one responsibility in our relationship—to walk the rent to the landlord’s apartment by the first of the month—and he had apparently failed to do that. I had wondered why my bank account had seemed unusually robust. The checks were probably sitting next to the door or, knowing Nick, covered in bong water on the coffee table somewhere. He had never really understood the purpose of the coasters I owned.

“He said you have to be out by the 15^th of next month.”

I rubbed my temple. It was the 20^th. The last game before the MLB draft was in just over a week. Maybe I could call my landlord and explain, but then I remembered that he had told me about the noise complaints from the other neighbors, as well as the lingering scent of pot that hovered around our apartment. No doubt he was eager for me to be out.

“Fine,” I said, realizing I would probably have to move back in with my mom for a while. The pain in my temple bloomed into a full-on headache. “Just make sure you’re out of there when I get back.”

“It’s cool,” he said. “Anne Marie is letting me stay with her.”

“Of course.” Anne Marie was the only girl in their five-person band. She played the tambourine and was sleeping her way through the group. I couldn’t blame her, though. She was terribly attractive and not very musically talented. Use what you got, right? Guess she saw potential in Nick. Just like I had. “Use protection,” I said and hung up.

I took a deep breath through my nose, trying to calm myself. This was just a minor setback. I was here to do a job and that’s what I was going to do. Nothing else mattered right now. I could do this. I was smart and capable and resourceful. Squaring my shoulders, I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and pulled it towards the welcome desk. But it got stuck around the potted plant, so I gave it a firm yank, which freed it, not only from the plant, but also from my grasp. I could only watch as my duct-taped suitcase flew through the air, hit the smooth, perfect floor, and promptly exploded in the middle of the busy lobby.

* * *

“Thank you so much,” I said to the very kind bellboy that had helped sweep my scattered clothes into my busted suitcase and get both it and me out of the lobby and up to my room in an incredibly short amount of time. I dug into my pockets for a tip, grateful to find a five-dollar bill even though it was a wadded up sweaty mess.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wishing I could explain how I had ended up in this situation, but that was a long story, starting with the poor decisions made in my adolescent and teen years, and this poor kid was already politely nodding his way out the door. The minute the door closed, I kicked my suitcase. Whatever delicate balance the bellboy had managed in order to get it into the room was immediately disrupted as the top popped open and my clothes spilled out onto the floor.

“I guess I’ll unpack, then,” I said, scowling at my completely broken piece of luggage. The only one that I owned. Guess I would be buying a new one no matter what. Unless I wanted to carry my clothes back to Houston in a garbage bag. I shivered. It had happened before and while it wasn’t the most embarrassing part of my childhood, it was pretty high up there.

I hung my clothes onto the hangers provided by the hotel, even folded up my panties and shirts and put them in the drawer. Then, when it was empty, I kicked my suitcase across the room like it was a stupid, awful, broken soccer ball. I just wanted it somewhere that I wouldn’t be able to look at it. It went under the bed. I hoped to forget about it.

The tiny glass bottles in the minibar clinked as I jerked the door open. I needed a drink. I needed one bad. Somehow in the insanity of the bag and my unmentionables spilling onto the floor of the lobby of a very fancy hotel, I had forgotten, briefly, that my boyfriend of six months had broken up with me and I was getting evicted from my apartment.

“That shithead,” I muttered to myself, staring at the tiny bottles of booze. The price list lay on top of the fridge, but I didn’t want to look. Not yet. I knew I couldn’t afford them, but I didn’t want to know how much I couldn’t afford them. Surely there was a bar nearby that had cheap beer on tap, or maybe a bottle of tequila they were looking to unload.

I pushed back my hair, which had gone frizzy from sweat and frustration, and closed the fridge door. I was going to be following Nathan Ryder for the next week. I couldn’t be mooning over Nick or thinking about how I was going to get my clothes home or worrying about finding a new place.

The paper had told me that Nathan was weary of journalists. That even though this meeting and interview had been arranged and he had agreed to it, there was a chance that he was going to be cagey and uncomfortable with the situation. I had to make him comfortable. That I could do.

I approached the mirror and gave myself a once-over. I looked exactly how I felt, sweaty and exhausted. Somehow my hair was both limp and fuzzy, my face splotchy. My clothes were wrinkled and displayed multiple wet spots, most especially underneath my armpits. I pulled them off and I stared at myself in the mirror, hands on hips, wearing nothing but black lace and a scowl.

“OK, Hall,” I said, blowing brown hair out of my equally brown eyes. “Here’s the score. Bases are loaded. The game is tied. You’re tired. But you can do this. You can fucking do this. You’ve got a hell of a swing and the ball is an easy lob. This guy is hot and interesting and you can write a piece that will make every panty in the country drop and also make his mama proud. This is your pitch, babe. This is what will get you into the big leagues.”

I pulled my favorite, yeah-I’m-fucking-hot dress from the hanger. Black. Stretchy. Impossible to breathe in. Wrestled my hair into a bun and swiped some dangerously red lipstick across my lips. I smiled at myself in the mirror. I looked good.

“I think it’s time for a few practice swings.”

* * *

The bar was crowded. Only a short walk from my hotel, off of 6^th Street, it gave me a chance to take in a little of Austin. The city was beautiful, and I passed several people walking their dogs or running, now that the sun had gone down and the heat was beginning to fade. I saw a huge variety of folks, as was expected in a town whose motto was “Keep Austin Weird.” Lots of hippies and hipsters milling around. All who smiled at me when I walked by, as if they knew me. The whole place seemed friendly and welcoming. It helped ease some of the tension of the day.

The bar was cool, all wood-paneled and dark and filled with people. As I anticipated, the booze was cheap and my dress had already gotten me two free drinks and a phone number that I was using for a coaster. Sipping my Patron on the rocks, I glanced up at the exposed brick wall and started, accidentally making eye contact with a taxidermy stag head mounted on the wall. It felt like he was looking right at me—just like him, I was stuffed and hung out to dry.

I was not interested in men tonight. I was interested in drinking until I forgot Nick’s name, Anne Marie’s name, and my own, not necessarily in that order.

I looked up at the clock. I had until midnight and then it was back to my hotel. I was a responsible drunk. I had my first meeting with Nathan at noon. Plenty of time to sleep off the alcohol and make myself presentable for him.

I was sipping a glass of halfway decent tequila when the entire bar seemed to grow quiet. I looked up and followed the wide-eyed stares until I saw him. He was tall, with a messy head of black hair and impossibly broad shoulders. Dark eyes and a wicked smile. Better looking in person than all the pictures I had seen, and I had seen a lot.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world,” I muttered to myself as Nathan Ryder came and took the empty seat next to mine.