Page 54

Pulling my phone out again, I search for a place to stay. Three results pop up. One’s a ski lodge farther up the mountain, beautiful enough that the nightly rate probably includes heated bathroom floors and someone who folds the end of the toilet paper into a triangle. Another’s a bed-and-breakfast that appears to have no vacancy until October. The third is the Pinecrest Motel, which is just outside the center of town.

The photographs show a long, two-story building with green doors, white railings, and a parking lot bordered by tall pines. The décor looks like it belongs in another decade, but it’s available tonight.

My thumb hovers over the screen as I stare at the reservation button.

A realization hits. I've never booked a hotel room before. Not because I've never stayed in one, but because someone else always made the arrangements. My parents' assistant. Graham's office. Someone chose the hotel, reserved the room, arranged the car, and handed me an itinerary. My only responsibility was packing my suitcase.

Now there's no one else. If I want somewhere to sleep tonight, I have to choose it.

I look at the photographs again. The rooms appear clean. The reviews are good. It's in town.

A plate lands on the table across from me with enough food to feed at least two people. “I think you brought me someone else’s order, too.”

Marge grins. “We don't believe anyone should leave here hungry.” She sets a small pitcher of syrup beside the plate. “Holler if you need anything.”

A pat of butter melts over the top pancake. I watch it disappear into the warm surface before pouring syrup over the stack. It pools around the edges, soaking into every bite. Then, I cut off a piece and lift it to my mouth.

The blueberry bursts against my tongue, warm and sweet, balanced by the richness of melted butter. My eyes close, and I let myself enjoy it instead of wondering whether I should’ve ordered something healthier.

No one’s watching. There’s no one reminding me that pancakes are an indulgence I’ll have to spend extra time in the gym working off or suggesting the egg-white omelet instead. For the first time in a long time, breakfast is just breakfast.

“Good?”

I open my eyes to find Marge refilling the sugar container at the next table.

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “Very.”

She smiles, satisfied, before moving on to the next table.

While I eat, I listen as the diner shifts around me.

Someone calls for a side of toast. Marge reminds a man near the counter that his doctor told him to cut back on bacon, then adds another piece to his plate when he tells her life is short. A pair of teenagers wearing matching shirts from the grocery store down the street share a booth and are splitting an order of fries.

Marge knows everyone’s name. She asks about children, appointments, roofs damaged in the last storm, and a dog recovering from surgery. She remembers who takes decaf and who wants their eggs cooked until the edges turn crisp.

No one seems surprised by being remembered.

At home, attention always feels like an evaluation. Here, it feels like care.

The pancakes are long gone, and the eggs nearly finished when Marge returns with the coffee pot. She tops off my mug before nodding toward the window. "So, what brings you to Ashbourne?"

Both hands wrap around the warm ceramic mug. "I'm starting over." The words leave my mouth before I have time to think them through.

Marge studies me for a moment, then nods once. "Well," she says, "this isn't a bad place to do that."

Something eases in me, quiet and unfamiliar. "I hope you're right."

"Where'd you come from?" Marge asks.

"Brooklyn."

She nods thoughtfully. "That's a big change."

My eyes drop to the coffee, thumb tracing the rim of my mug. "Yeah."

She doesn't look alarmed. Instead, she nods as though she's already turning the problem over in her mind. "Well," she says, "we'll have to get you settled somewhere for the night."

The words catch me off guard. Not because she's offering me a place to stay. Because she says we.