The Sweetheart by Angelina Mirabella

the headlights toward the cypress knees in the river.
    After he parks, you step out of the car to investigate. You have lived near the Schuylkill all your life, but this belongs to another category of nature altogether. You can’t see much in the dark, but you can smell its ripeness and hear its laps against the boat ramp. You also hear something chirping—frogs, or maybe crickets.
    â€œWhy Otherside?” you ask. “Other side of what?”
    â€œI guess that depends on who you ask.”
    You slap at a mosquito. “I’m asking you.”
    â€œMe?” Joe walks around to the back of his car, unlocks the trunk. “I think this place is the other side of heaven, but I suspect some of the girls will say differently. Hey, you going to help me with this or what?”
    Joe lifts one end of your trunk out of the DeSoto and motions for you to take the other. “Your training begins now,” he jokes, and the two of you hoist it out of the car and into the dark, wood-paneled room where you will live. Joe wasn’t lying about the heat. It sure doesn’t feel like September in that room—not any September you’ve ever known, anyway. By the time Joe locks the room up and hands you the key, your dress is drenched in sweat.
    â€œLiving out here might be a bit of an adjustment for you. Was for me, too. I’m from Cleveland myself. But I love it now. Winter’s a lot easier, and living on the water has its perks. Mullet will be running soon. Sometimes I catch ten, twelve with one throw.”
    â€œI have no idea what that means,” you say, and Joe laughs.
    â€œI didn’t used to, either. Here’s something else that’s nice.”
    Joe points over your head and you look up. Through the flags of Spanish moss, you discover one more thing that makes it clear just how far you are from home: a hazeless sky thick with stars.
    It is easy for me to imagine you in this moment, your mouth open, your ponytail stretching down your back as you tilt your head back to look at the universe above. I only wish that I could see now what you saw then: the water in front of you, the sky above, and your whole life ahead of you, sparkling.
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    After Joe walks you quickly around the grounds to orient you—the gym is this concrete-block building here, his office is in this cabin here —he escorts you into the diner, which, believe it or not, is even drearier than your room. Black paths are worn into the heavily trafficked carpet. The orange vinyl booths are outlined in greasy nautical rope. All of these are empty save one, where three young women chat over the remnants of their dinner. As you follow Joe past their table, you sense furtive glances.
    â€œI was just about to give up on y’all,” calls a woman from the flattop.
    Joe walks you over and introduces her as Betsy. “My girl Friday,” he says, but she is hardly a girl. There are faint lines around her eyes and some of the hairs that have escaped her hairnet are gray. Betsy wipes her hand on her apron and extends it over the counter. “Looks like you made it in one piece.”
    â€œI think so.”
    Betsy’s smile gets your attention. Not just because it is unusual—one of her front teeth is significantly larger than the other—but also because there seems to be some maternal concern embedded in it: I sure hope you know what you’ve gotten yourself into . She seems like someone who will look out for you, which is one more reason to feel good about being here. “You must be starving. What can I get you, hon?”
    Moments later, a plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes arrives at the booth where you and Joe have taken up residency, and for a while, everything and everyone else disappears. You don’t just eat this food: you inhale it. It is not until you lick a finger that you remember where you are and who is watching. When you