Melanie turns to a fresh page in her sparkly notebook. “Name: Do you prefer Ruth or Ruthie Midona?”

“Ruthie’s fine.” Less rhymes with it. The teachers used me as their airplane black box if they left the room and came back to chaos, hence my school nickname Truthful Ruth. I was the church girl with thrift store shoes; my classmates had ponies and Jet Skis.

Melanie is also distracted. “Oh, got a message. I’d give that a four out of ten. See? A dick.” She holds up the screen to me; it is indeed a dick. I need a banana or ChapStick for scale. She smirks as she prepares a response. “I always reply with a photo of a zebra’s dick. Gives them some perspective.” She shows me that too.

What human dick would get a ten out of ten? It dawns on me that this is the first page of a lawsuit. Dicks in the workplace: Sylvia would be furious. “We should do some work. I really don’t have time to date.” I file some paperwork under B for Boring.

“You’ve definitely got the time, let’s be real. How have you worked here for sixteen years?”

“How old do you think I am?” I see her eyes lower to my clothes. “Mel, I’ve worked here for six years. Not sixteen.”

“My contract goes until Christmas and that’s an eternity, no offense.” There’s complete desolation in her tone.

The only reply I can give to that is, “I’ve got a spare yogurt if you want it.”

“God, yes, please.” We find the strength to carry on.

“I’m twenty-five,” I say, feeling weirdly embarrassed by the fact.

“Twenty-five” she says in a marveling tone as she writes it down. “Only three years older than me, how’s that possible? But you have great skin,” she amends, realizing how that sounded. “You’re just so grown-up, running this place. That’s all I mean.”

I’ll follow her suggested profile format. “Low-maintenance twenty-five-year-old peasant who makes a lot of apologies.”

She snorts in amusement and taps her pen. Her dark eyes assessing me critically, she asks, “How do you know that you’re low maintenance?”

“Look at me.”

“It’s not just about looks.” Melanie is charitable. I’m okay-looking but I’m not fancy. “Do you like the guy to be all over you? Texting you all the time, taking you out places, giving you presents? Do you want him obsessed with you, or someone who gives you space?” She thinks of something. “Oh, whoops. If you’re not into guys, that’s cool too.”

“I’m really not sure.” I watch her blink several times and clarify, “I like guys. But I don’t know if I want him all over me.”

(Liar. I’d love that.)

(I think.)

“What was your last boyfriend like?”

“He was …” I can’t think of anything except very religious. I make a praying shape with my hands and hope that’s enough. “A long time ago.”

She narrows one eye. “How long ago, exactly?”

I cannot answer that without opening myself up for a total crucifixion. “Quite a while ago.”

If this were a teen movie, they’d intercut a couple of scenes here: Me in a prom dress slow-dancing with a Devout Young Man, literally named Adam. Cut to us in a single bed, partially naked. Adam is facing away from me, his shoulders shaking with sobs. If you think that memory can’t get any worse, what if I told you that:

•My dad is a reverend?

•Adam went to my dad for counseling the next morning?

•Counseling re: the sin he committed with me?

•Yeah.

My counseling was outsourced to Mom and she told me that Dad was “deeply disappointed” by my “choices.” Apparently, he was so disappointed that we haven’t had a proper talk since, and I’ve never made a bad choice again.

“Looking to jump back into the dating scene.” Melanie writes that down. “I’ve written all my friends’ dating profiles, and for my older sister Genevieve. My bridesmaid’s dress is this pistachio color. That’s the thanks I get.”

An engaged sister? Melanie has some heavy-duty credentials. But this feels like the start of another teen movie and I have no intention of starring in it. “Please don’t actually post anything without my permission.”

“I won’t,” she replies, so puzzled by my suspicion that I’m ashamed. “We’ll create a schedule of homework activities starting out very easy, until you’re down at the Thunderdome getting your neck kissed by some sexy guy. We won’t just pick the first one who comes along. By the time I leave here, you’ll have someone.”

I gape at her. “That is literally impossible.”

“Not when you follow the Melanie Sasaki Method.” She writes that down and underlines it many times. “The Sasaki Method. How catchy. That sounds just like a self-help book. That sounds like a Netflix series.” She’s sold the rights within ten seconds of having the idea.

She’s not the only one jumping way ahead; I’m still caught up on the sexy-guy-neck-kissing concept. By the time she’s worked her magic and left, I’ll be watching the Christmas special of my favorite TV show, Heaven Sent, on my couch with someone who wants to kiss me. Is it actually impossible?

“So you in? The Sasaki Method?” Melanie grins widely. “It’ll be a lot of fun.”

I’m a sleep-on-it person. “Can I think about it?”

“I want a reply by Friday, close of business.” Today is Monday.

She turns to her computer and begins typing. Just as I think a miracle has occurred— she’s doing some work— my computer chimes with a meeting request for Friday five P.M. Subject? The Sasaki Method, of course. I click accept, and just like that, the conversation is not over, just rescheduled.

CHAPTER TWO

After our yogurts, Melanie begins setting up the new resident profile in the system, but now that she’s working, I kind of wish we were still chatting. It’s a beautiful afternoon. Through the open office door, I can see the neat path leading to the residents’ accommodations. There’s perfect hedges, emerald grass, and a tiny sliver of blue sky. “I like Sylvia’s view from this chair.”

Melanie replies, still typing, “Are you angling to get her job?”

I nod. “If nothing disastrous happens, she says she can retire with confidence.” I think she means, she’ll retire before things get serious.

Prescott Development Corporation (PDC) acquired Providence eighteen months ago. They have a reputation for giving their acquisitions a glamorous, repurposing makeover. Would Providence become a wellness center? A boutique hotel? A set for a reality TV show? Time passed and nothing happened. There was no visit, no call, no bulldozers, but eventually a decree was issued on PDC letterhead: All tenancy agreements have been altered to have the same end date of December 31 next year.

“That’s fine,” Mrs. Whittaker (she of the legendary three boyfriends) told me when I dropped off the paperwork explaining the tenancy amendment. “I’ll be dead by then, honey. Got a pen?” The attitude of residents has either been cheerful don’t-careness or gossipy conspiracy theories. The calls from their families were stressed-out questions we still can’t answer. By next Christmas we could be packing up this office.