Page 2 of Wrapped Up with the Three Scrooges
“Your fly is still down. Not that anyone can see anything, since you know...” I held my fingers a few inches apart, making the universal gesture for ‘pathetically small.’
The elevator dinged, and I practically dove inside, my hands shaking so badly I almost missed the buttons twice. Finally, the doors slid shut with a soft whoosh that felt like the closing credits.
As I rode the elevator down, watching the floor numbers tick by with agonizing slowness, the reality of what had just happened started to set in.
It wasn’t until I reached my car that everything hit me. My two-year relationship was over, and I’d thrown an entire turkey dinner at him like some kind of deranged Food Network reject.
And on top of that, I’d effectively quit my job, because there was no way in hell I could work with that cheating asshole after this. The thought of having to see his stupid face every day, knowing what he’d done, made my stomach turn more violently than that time I got food poisoning from gas station sushi.
Slumping against my steering wheel, I did what any rational twenty-eight-year-old woman would do in this situation. I laughed until I cried, or cried until I laughed, I’m not really sure which came first.
My life was officially a dumpster fire.
I had exactly $843 in my bank account, a garage full of Christmas decorations I’d planned to put up this weekend, and no idea where I was going to sleep tonight.
The problem with rock bottom is that it comes with questionably stained carpet and a bathroom that looks like it was last cleaned when *NSYNC was still together. Three days into my new life at the Extended Stay I’d learned several valuable life lessons.
Lesson one: Making ramen in a coffee pot is technically possible but inadvisable. The coffee-flavored noodles I’d created last night would haunt my taste buds until the day I died. And probably beyond.
“At least it’s not boring,” I muttered to myself, watching today’s attempt at cuisine spin ominously in the microwave. The ancient appliance made concerning grinding noises that suggested it might be possessed by the ghost of bad decisions past.
Time for my daily dose of caffeine and sugar.
The door to my room stuck slightly as I tried to open it, requiring a special hip-check-and-twist maneuver I’d perfectedover the weekend. I needed ice, and the machine was conveniently located right next to my new best friend, Gary, the night manager, who had a conspiracy theory for every occasion.
“The government’s putting mind control chips in the ice machines,” Gary informed me solemnly as I approached, his uniform somehow both too big and too small at the same time.
I nodded sagely, having learned that agreeing was the fastest way to get ice. “That explains why I suddenly wanted to do my taxes after getting ice yesterday.”
Once my cup was full, I headed back to my room, and settled onto the bed that squeaked like it was auditioning for a horror movie soundtrack. My phone buzzed with another text from Josh—number forty-seven since The Great Turkey Incident, but who was counting? Delete.
Lesson two: Hotel wifi password requirements are more stringent than the FBI’s. After three failed attempts at “Extended123,” I’d finally succeeded with “Extended1234” because apparently, even budget motels need military-grade security where the password changed every day.
A crash from next door reminded me of lesson three: The walls were thin enough to hear my neighbor’s life story whether I wanted to or not. Mrs. Henderson in 214 was going through a divorce, loved reality TV, and had what seemed like hourly phone conversations with her cat sitter about her beloved Mr. Whiskers’ eating habits.
“He ate three treats?!” her voice carried through the wall. I nodded along, invested in Mr. Whiskers’ dietary achievements despite never having met the cat.
The microwave dinged, and I retrieved my ramen with all the enthusiasm of someone getting a root canal. “Bon appétit,” I told my reflection in the streaky mirror. “This is what we call character building.”
My phone buzzed again, this time with a job rejection email that was surely a delayed auto response seeing as it was a Sunday night. Apparently, my “qualifications were impressive” but they were “going in another direction.” Probably the direction of someone who hadn’t dramatically quit their last job by pelting their cheating boyfriend with poultry.
“You know what?” I addressed my ramen, watching the noodles swim listlessly in their MSG-laden broth like my career prospects. “We’re going to turn this around. Tomorrow, we’re going to put boots to the pavement, march into every business within a ten-mile radius, and charm someone into hiring me.”
A knock at my door interrupted my pep talk to processed noodles. It was Gary, holding what appeared to be a tinfoil hat.
“Protection,” he said, thrusting it toward me. “From the ice machine rays.”
I accepted it graciously, because when life hands you a tinfoil hat, you put it on and hope it goes with your outfit. “Thanks, Gary. This really pulls my entire ensemble together.”
Once the door was locked, I caught my reflection again—now featuring discount aluminum headwear—and couldn’t help but laugh. If someone had told me a week ago that I’d be living in a motel, wearing a tinfoil hat, and having deep conversations with instant noodles, I’d have thought they were crazy.
But here I was, and somehow, I wasn’t completely falling apart. Sure, my life currently resembled a rejected sitcom pilot, but I was surviving. And that was enough for now.
Chapter Two
Emery
Islumped against a brick wall, my feet screaming in protest after eight hours of submitting countless résumés in person and having a few on-the-spot interviews. Who knew job hunting could be more exhausting than actually working? At least when I worked with Josh, I got to sit in a chair most of the day. Now my fancy interview heels—purchased during happier times when I had disposable income—were trying to murder me one blister at a time.
