Ramona #3
Brooklyn’s quiet for a stretch, then she says, “Ramona, this is insane, but I appreciate you making it happen. Just… I don’t know. Don’t over-exhaust yourself. The last thing we need is you collapsing.”
I grunt in partial acknowledgement. The idea that I might get tired or that my resilience is not infinite rarely occurs to me. “I’ll be fine,” I say briskly. “I’ve got a plan.”
We ring off. I push open the glass door to the motel lobby, which is as dim as a 1980s movie set, complete with a poinsettia on the counter and a half-strung string of lights drooping overhead.
A middle-aged man in a reindeer sweater nods me a greeting and checks me in for three nights.
I consider just booking until the 26th but decide I can reevaluate after I’ve confirmed how quick the sale might go.
He hands me a key card—an actual plastic card that’s seen better days—and a pamphlet about local holiday events. “We have hot cocoa packets in the lobby,” he says proudly.
I force a polite, tight smile. “Thanks. That’s kind.”
My room is on the second floor, accessible by a set of outdoor stairs that creak alarmingly under my weight. The wind whips my hair into my face, and I vow to tuck it into a power bun tomorrow. So far, Hollyvale is exactly as I remember: quaint, cold, and mildly pushy about the holiday agenda.
Inside, the motel room is barely heated. The walls are paper-thin, the bed has a lumpy comforter in a candy cane pattern, and the heater in the corner rattles. But it’s mine for at least the next three days. I place my suitcase by the bed, release a breath, and sit on the edge of the mattress.
I glance at my phone: the Matches Ever After icon sits on my screen like a big red flag.
With a few taps, I open it. My profile is bare.
The system has assigned me tomorrow as a “Getting to Know You” day, which apparently just means orientation or something, because my first real date is the next day, December 3rd, for the Gingerbread House Contest.
Under the event listing, I see two lines:
Partner: TBA (Name: Theo)
Host: Hollyvale Culinary Society. Founders: Iris “Keri” Baines that doesn’t mean I owe it anything.
I owed her a courtesy visit. Instead, I got a sneaky clause. Fine. She gave me a game; I’ll win it.
I shut my laptop and let my eyes roam the motel’s meager walls. In the distance, the faint echo of a Christmas carol floats through the closed window. Probably from someone’s radio, or maybe from the sparkly parade of shops along main street.
Nana, if you’re watching this from some star-shaped vantage point, I hope you’re satisfied. You always said I over-planned my life. Well, now you’ve forced me into the weirdest schedule of my entire career.