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It isn’t beautiful.

It isn’t mine.

But it’s enough.

I set the suitcase on the bed and unzip it, then just stare at the clothes inside for several minutes. Unpacking feels too permanent. Leaving everything folded inside feels as though I might run again before morning.

So, I compromise by hanging two sweaters in the narrow closet and setting my toiletries beside the sink. The box of ornaments stays wrapped between my clothes.

I flop across the bed without bothering to take off my shoes. For the first time all day, there’s nothing left that requires my immediate attention. I’ve eaten. I have a place to sleep. There’s no one telling me what I should do next.

The freedom I wanted so desperately settles over me, vast and unfamiliar.

It feels a little like flying.

It feels a little like falling.

Eventually, sleep finds me.

When I wake, sunlight spills through the gap in the curtains, cutting a bright line across the carpet. For one disoriented second, I don't know where I am.

Then I see the green motel key resting on the nightstand.

Ashbourne.

My phone confirms it. Nine twenty-three.

I stare at the screen, unable to remember the last time I slept this late. Or this well.

Slowly, I sit up and rub both hands over my face.

The satin pillowcase I’d remembered to put on sometime in the middle of the night has done its job. Waking up with flattened curls would’ve been adding insult to injury.

A laugh escapes me. At least I still have my priorities.

My stomach isn't hungry yet, but the motel room already feels smaller than it did when I arrived. Staying inside makes it too easy to imagine everything happening without me back in Brooklyn.

A shower comes first, then leave-in conditioner worked through my curls. I take my time coaxing them back into place. A little concealer. Mascara. Lip gloss. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to feel like myself.

Then I pull on pants, a long-sleeved shirt, my warmest sweater, thick socks, and a pair of thigh-high brown leather boots, and I head for the walking path June mentioned.

It winds behind the motel through a narrow stretch of trees before meeting a road lined with businesses spaced farther apart than those on Main Street. Snow sits banked along the edges of the road in dirty gray ridges, the kind that’s been plowed and re-plowed enough times to stop looking like anything other than a nuisance. There’s a small grocery store, a laundromat, a hardware store, and a low brick garage surrounded by a gravel lot.

The sign above the open service bays is weathered enough that I can’t make out the smaller print from the road.

Several motorcycles sit near the front. Not new ones displayed beneath polished lights and carefully positioned signs. These look used. Some are gleaming and cared for, others marked by scratches or faded paint. Cards are clipped near the handlebars with years, mileage, and prices.

I slow without meaning to. Motorcycles have never interested me. Graham’s father calls them donor vehicles and launches into statistics whenever he sees one driving past. My own father has treated enough accident victims to agree.

Just as I’m about to walk by, a flash of pink catches my eye. A scooter sits off to the side of the building, half sheltered beneath the edge of a metal awning. It doesn’t belong among the black and chrome lined across the front.

Its paint is a soft, unapologetic pink. The seat is white, with a small crack near the back that someone repaired carefully enough that I only notice when I step closer.

It’s ridiculous, and I fall in love with her immediately.

A tag hangs from one handlebar.

USED.