The car ride to Aya's high-rise apartment in New York was something I wished I could forget.

I knew exactly who she was. The sister of America's favorite singer-heartthrob combo. She sat in the passenger seat, and I drove. Memories of the day prior flooded my brain like an aggressive waterfall. This was all so sudden, all so new to me.

And, undoubtedly, new to her, too. I had to give her some leeway, but even then, she was hard to manage.

Was this why Emaad hired me? To manage his sister? Perhaps the issue was coming from inside the home.

when I arrived at the home that Saturday, it was like nothing I had ever seen before. Where I was from–London–the majority of the homes looked almost identical, all made of brick and stone, standing wall-to-wall with one another. Shopping centers were scattered nearby and the city was lively.

But America?

It was desolate. Well, at least Short Hills, was. Even my sister's library bookshop, Little Shop, was in far better shape and livability than whatever the Huseinnis were living in. The Huseinnis lived in a gated community, which established their status in American society, but the feeling of home was nonexistent.

I didn't expect to live there, I did not want to, but I couldn't shake the feeling that Aya, and the rest of her family unit, didn't want to, either. Something was off about the home.

"Turn left–no right... no... keep straight." From my peripheral vision, Aya squinted looking at the large map that spread across her lap and took up the entire portion of her front window on the passenger side.

I groaned. We'd been on the road for nearly fifteen minutes, but it felt like an eternity. Did she not know how to read maps? As a celebrity more or less, wouldn't she be more... dare I say, educated in map etiquette? How did she ever travel anywhere with such an atrocious skill set?

"Let me see the map," I demanded, but my tone was calm and unwavering. My eyes were purely on the road, yet I could still see Aya squirm in her seat.

She shook her head. "No," she replied. "I've got it."

Something was telling me that she was purely bluffing. Unlucky for her, I had a good hunch about it. When you've been a practitioner for four years, your patients think they're so slick and clever for lying to your face that they're fine. If they were, none of them would be at the hospital to begin with. And no one would be looking like a dead corpse waiting their turn to see you.

You, as the doctor, get quite good at detecting when someone lies.

"Give it to me."

I made a sharp turn, and Aya gasped. "Ya Allah," she curses, her brown eyes wide, her tanned face turning a pretty shade of pink. "Careful! If you crash my car–"

"I'm not going to crash your car." I wish I did, though. Your disgusting pink Chevy, at that. A kind of car like this would've sent my old buddies into a laughing fit.

And I had to agree.

This car was as tacky as the rest of them.

She, as my client, was no exception. I just needed to do my job for however long the contract was written for, and then I wouldn't see her snooty face ever again.

Aya scoffed, her lips parted into a round pout. She looked out the window and didn't say anything.

Finally, some peace and quiet.

We drove in silence for a handful of minutes, before I realized I didn't really know where were going. After she stopped giving directions, I was pretty much left to my own guesses.

Aya shifted in her seat, turning her head one-eighty and looking at me wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights. "Why'd we atop? Why are we pulled at the shoulder?" Her pitch raised, and I watched her freak out for a solid thirty seconds.

"Don't worry," I assured, gently taking the map from her lap when she wasn't looking. I looked at it quizzically, quickly enough that she hadn't noticed, but the words weren't making much sense.

I turned it upside down.

I cringed, realizing what she had done. It was upside down the entire time. Nonetheless, I pretended everything was fine like things should be. I set it back on her lap, my hand brushed over her cloth-bound skin from the sheer tights she wore underneath her dress. She clenched her thighs together in response to the accidental contact.

She looked at me, I looked at her.

"It was upside down," I said quietly, though my tone was darker than I'd anticipated.

"I know," she replied, copying my tone. "I was trying to fix it."

I started the engine again and pivoted the car back on the road.

About ten minutes later, I peered out the left-side window, Aya looked in that direction, too. Just there, as I drove, the big green road sign said: "WELCOME TO NEW YORK."

This was it, I thought to myself. This was really happening. I'm officially on the job.

"Where do you live?" I asked, refocusing my attention back on the road so I wouldn't crash her car. Would it be "our" car now?

I clear my throat, feeling the acid of nausea rise. Too much. Too soon.

"I told you where I live," she said, glancing at me.

"On the map," I started, "I can't read it with all these markups. Point to where it is."

She scooted closer to me, half of the map on my right side. She pointed to a weirdly-shaped blob that was circled in pink marker.

Holy hell. She lived in the Upper West Side. I've only read that place in the news, I didn't really think it was real.

Until right now.

"It's a bit small," she said.

"You're brother said that the new apartment is in the same building?" I asked her casually.

"Yes," she responded.

Before either of us knew it, we were right outside the building. I got out of the car, grabbing her white wool jacket from the backseat. I circled over to her side, opened her door, and extended my hard for her to take. She unbuckled her seatbelt, smoothed out her light pink Chanel dress, and stepped out of the car on her own.

I didn't bother her about why she didn't take my hand, that was a custom I had learned growing up to do for your women-counterparts, and slid the jacket over her, helping her put it on.

"See," she said loudly over the screaming and honking of cars that drove past us, "it's a bit small."

I shielded my eyes from the sun. I pulled out a pair of sunglasses from my waistcoat. I looked up, but I was unsure of what exactly I was supposed to look at. "You're right," I lied, "it is small."

The building was tall, skinny, and fashioned with windows all the way around. From a distance, it looked like the building was made out of glass. My, word. America was different than any other country I've ever seen.

I felt her piercing, grotesque stare slice into my bullet-proofed skin. Wow, I didn't know I couldn't withstand pettiness.

I gave her a faux smile. "I'm simply repeating what you told me."

"I'm gonna miss my apartment," she muttered, folding her arms. The wind blew in our direction at a heavy speed, and I rushed us inside through the giant revolving doors.

The lobby was full of class like the exterior was. With ultra-polished flooring you could see your reflection, and the furniture that was scattered across the commons were made out of plush and leather. Even the front desk was crafted out of the finest mahogany wood I'd ever seen.

Aya pulled out her keys from her black Dior handbag, clutching them in her hand tightly. She looked over her shoulder and glanced at me. "Come on," she said, "the elevator's this way."

When the elevator doors opened, no other passengers were in sight. Great. I waited for Aya to board before I did. Given my height and stature, I was trying hard to not move a muscle, and Aya didn't seem to care.

"Just a fair warning," she said plainly, looking rather uninterested, "I share this space with a roommate. I dunno if she's here or not, but if that's the case... we gotta think of something to, ya know..."

No way she wanted me to lie about who I was.

And I couldn't decipher if that was smart or daft.

Probably a mix of both.

"Ashamed of me that much?"

"I know enough to know that you don't wanna be here as much as I do." She folded her arms over her chest, beginning to tamper with her coat's buttons. "So it isn't really shame as it is awkward."

I ignored her, and for the rest of the one-minute lift ride, we didn't exchange any other words, or, rather, disputes. She didn't want to talk? Alright, fine.

She didn't have to, her body language spoke more than she had lead on.

The doors opened and she briskly walked out, fumbled to open her handbag, and dug her hand into it quite violently. "Here," she said, tossing me the keys.

"What do I have to take?"

"Nothing."

What?

I looked at her deadpan. My cold expression couldn't catch the fact that I was seething. I drove, bickered, and bickered some more all for a "nothing"?

This girl was surely hard to manage. When I say go "left", she went right; when I said to stop talking, she continued. But this was the creme de la creme.

This was torture.

It was only the first day.

"The place is already furnished," she said. "I just wanted to say goodbye."

I don't move from where I stand, staring her down. "So the drive here was... useless." It came out more of a question than a one-hundred percent confident confirmation.

Aya scoffed, shaking her head. She turned around so her back was facing me and went on walking. "Not useless," she corrected me. Well, alright, princess. "Oh, come on, have a heart. Don't you have one?" her tone was light–and mocking.

I did have a heart, I just wasn't willing to share mine with her.

"What's your friend like?" I asked, taking long strides to catch up with her. I never understood how women could walk so fast in heels. When my sister worked at a legal office for some time, the dress code for women was heels and a dress. She'd come home with blisters on her feet.

"If you're asking so I could set you up–"

I glared at her as we walked side by side. "That is not what I'm asking."

She pursed her lips. "She's a friend from university. She's... "

Not a prude? Nice?

But she didn't finish her sentence. I glanced at her, waiting, but her person changed. She looked to be in the kind of thought you would associate with trying not to think too hard or else you might cry.

I hummed a response, letting her indirectly know that she didn't have to continue and that I understood. Today was a long day anyway, and I certainly didn't want to make it longer.

That would have to wait for another time.

I stood a few feet away so I wasn't intruding, just watching her.

She turned the key and opened the door.

"Oh, Aya! I just got the news, can't believe it," her friend said.

From a distance, I could see her perfectly. She was tall, dark skinned much like Aya, and had long wavy, dark black hair. Her eyes were an interesting shade of green, her smile bright.

I couldn't make out the rest of their conversation, but I suppose Aya would tell me about it later.

She was different around others, I noticed. She was softer, kinder.

I crack a small, but barely-there smile.

Then the two hug. Aya looked over her shoulder and we shared a look.

I nodded, signaling her to finalize her goodbyes. Well, if you could call moving just down the hall a goodbye, that is.

Aya took a turn and sighed. Meeting me at the intersection I stood at. "Okay."

"Okay," I said.

Sometimes, I wondered why I took the jobs that I did. It never really made much sense. I did whatever I could to provide for my sister and me until she reached of age. My service as a medic for the British Royal Army, although short-lived, changed my view of the world. But it mattered to me. The only thing that did until it didn't anymore. Until I left because I couldn't do it anymore.

For that reason alone I wasn't able to practice until some time. Leaving was the best and worst choice I could make for myself.

When an experience shapes your life, it changes you in more ways than you'd expect or anticipate.

I lost everything when I joined, but when I left, it felt like I regained my life back. Even if that meant I was out of work for a while. But now I was here, working at another job I didn't particularly like (Aya was not the kind of client I'd picture ever working with or for), I had to make it work somehow. I mean, always managed to, so why would this be any different? All I had to do was protect her and keep her out of trouble.

I'd done it once and I was sure I could do it again.

I wanted to have a purpose again. I deserved to feel like I mattered to someone or something.

Aya just had to be on my good side, because I did not want to entertain the idea of anything else.

I looked at her again. All that running around, stuffed in the car with her, and then begging dragged out to her apartment building (a bloody high-rise at that), I hadn't taken a good look at her.

I hadn't realized who my client was. I mean, yes, by name and association, but I didn't know her.

"What?"

"Are you ready to go?" I asked, keeping my composure.

She ignored my question and instead asked one of her own. "Have you ever lived with a roommate before?" she dug into her handbag again for the millionth time that day–and took out a cherry-flavored lollipop, unwrapped it, and popped it into her equally-as-cherry, colored lips.

I started to walk at a brisk pace, taking long strides the opposite direction. The new apartment was just across the hall, but why did it feel like a foreign place altogether? Why did it feel like another planet? My hand was inside my trouser pocket; I felt the keys against my palm.

"Yes," I answered, but didn't elaborate any further.

Aya scurried to follow, her short legs barely making it to me without slightly panting. It took everything in me not to laugh. Looks like we had a lot to work through. "Wait-" she said, and I felt her small, yet pleasantly soft, hand measly tug at my wrist, pulling me to a halt.

She straightened up, quickly releasing her hand away from mine and flexing it right behind her hip like I wouldn't notice. She wiped her hands on the side of her tweed dress's skirt.

"I'm not going anywhere," I told, part sarcastically, part jokingly, and part truthfully. So long as the contract was in order, the two of us were stuck together. "I'm waiting."

She scowled, but instantly collected herself as if nothing happened. Classic move for a rich girl. She was far too prideful and I detested it.

"I wasn't done," she said, in a matter of fact tone. Her big brown, bug-looking eyes looking up at me.

I gave her the side eye. "Go on," I said.

"Was it with a woman?" she asked.

Who was going to tell her that I had a living, breathing, grown adult sister? And now I had this girl to deal with, too?

"Do you always ask this many questions?" I asked with no emotion in my voice, fumbling with the keys. I was never good at opening doors. She was very distracting. Good God. After a while of trying to open the door (I had , I turn to her. Surely that would make her hush up. "Yes," I said.

"Really?" she asked, looking at my hands. "Who?"

I finally got the door opened. Hallelujah.

I give her a disinterested and rather cold look. "You," I lied. She rolled her eyes. Whatever, that was not my fault.

I smiled.

She grimaced.

I pushed open the door.

"Go inside."