“No, but we know by now he lands on his feet. Knowing him, he’ll find the exact money to buy into the tattoo studio on the street in a paper bag.” Melanie opens my underwear drawer. Then closes it with a rueful headshake. “I need you to not get your feelings hurt by him, Ruthie. Don’t forget, his family’s company might be coming for this place, and he won’t do a thing to help.”

Anxiety spikes in me. “We don’t know that PDC is going to be trouble.”

“I read that binder of boring media printouts about PDC you gave me ages ago. I also found an interview with Jerry online. He was talking about that life is change crap he gave us in the first meeting. I thought he was just giving us an old-white-boss pep talk, but he really believes it. They don’t buy sites and keep them the same.”

To keep calm, I pick up a silk blouse off the bed and fold it carefully on my lap. “Providence is special, though, and it’s managed perfectly. They’ll see.”

“I’ve worked a lot of places and the writing is on the wall. This place is going to change. You might get evicted. Teddy will be gone, and so will I. I mean, I’ll only be a phone call away, and we’ll still hang out. But I need to make sure you’re going to be okay. Because I am your adorer.”

In my tiny universe, I have never been this lucky.

Before I realize it, I’ve put my head down and I’m praying. The old reflex comes usually at selfish times— Please God, let me get a good parking space. But now I’m moved out of gratitude. For the first time in years, I’m thanking God for bringing these two people to me. I don’t care that one day I will be sad. I have so much.

The silk shirt on my lap has a few hot wet dots on it now.

“According to your worksheet, you want someone strong and mature. Someone to show up for you and to support you when things get hard.” Mel takes the folded silk shirt away from me, patting the tears. “It’s your turn to get taken care of now. You deserve it.”

With an emotion-thick voice I manage to say, “Maybe you should study to become a therapist.” I make a note on her worksheet.

“Add it to my list of possibilities.” She hums around for a few minutes until she seems to have finished in my wardrobe. “Okay. So this is the keep category.” Just as I melt with relief— the pile on the bed is huge— she points backward at the tiny capsule collection that remains hanging in my closet.

“Mel, are you telling me that I cannot keep all my stuff?” Each has a memory attached; a moment of triumph when I found each on the thrift store rack. “This is a pure silk shirt. It had its tags.”

She doesn’t remotely care. “It’s all going back where you found it. Everything here is just … old. These browns and yellowy-creams are not your colors. No offense.”

I do take offense at the way she lifts the waistband of a wool skirt on one finger like disgusting seaweed. “I don’t get paid enough to replace an entire wardrobe in one day. I can say that everything on this bed was a good purchase.”

“You don’t even own jeans, do you? You can wear this tonight”— she unhooks a black funeral dress out of the wardrobe and holds it up— “for your second-week activity.” With ceremony, she takes a sheet out of her folder. Then she withholds it.

“Teddy tried to get an early look at the full Sasaki Method. I caught him trying to log into my computer. He played the son-of-the-boss card. It was so undignified.” She pulls a face at the memory. “He was all sweaty, trying to work out what we’re going to do next.”

“That reminds me. I know he got a copy of my first worksheet from you.”

“I truly don’t know how that happened. He asked to read it, I told him to get lost. Then there was a giant Snickers in front of me. Then he was gone. I’m slightly sure he’s a wizard or a vampire.” She shakes herself out of the memory fog with some difficulty. Poor kid.

“I’m sure he came and saw you midafternoon, too, right when you’re weakest. He’s hard to resist.”

“But you do.” She considers that. “It’s why he can’t stop hounding you. He’s never had a challenge before. From now on, let’s get secretive so he doesn’t sabotage everything.”

I scan through the new Week 2 worksheet, which is largely blank, with lines added for writing. I look up at her. I’m not sure I completely understand the point of this. “All I have to do is go sit somewhere by myself for an hour and fill this out?”

“A place where people your age hang out. That’s it. And while you’re there, you’re going to write about who Ruthie Midona is. I want you on a page. On dates, you need to be able to describe yourself quickly and positively. Like a job interview.”

“You haven’t organized some sort of surprise, have you? Is a male stripper going to come up to me?”

She laughs until she has to wipe her eyes. “I’ll save that for Week 3.”

“Sit by myself and fill out a worksheet.” I ponder this. I don’t know where I’ll go. “Am I actually this sad?”

“You’re not sad. You’ve got anxiety issues about leaving Providence and you’re a door locker. Yes, I’ve noticed, and no, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You like checklists and lists, so I thought this way would distract you. But being alone and off-site will be enough of a push outside your comfort zone. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I know you can do it.”

She’s really firm about this, holding my gaze, and I get that same rush of relief when I received my first worksheet. She’s tailored it to my abilities with such care. “I’m really grateful you’re taking the time— ” I try to begin to describe my feelings, but she just waves her hands like my words are smoke.

“Don’t forget, you’re helping me back. What should I do?” She takes out a second copy of the worksheet and hands it to me.

I take a pen and amend the paragraph of instructions slightly. “I’d like to read about what you want your life to look like in ten years. I think maybe if we know where you want to end up, we can start to work backward.”

“Ten years,” she marvels. “I’ll be thirty-two. Ancient.” She hasn’t looked around Providence lately if she thinks that.

“Put thought into where you want to live, what kind of house you have, whether you work full-time, part-time. Pretend that you’re in an interview session in ten years, and they ask you about yourself.”

She nods and puts the sheet away carefully. As she gathers up her things to leave, she says, “I’m going to give you a spoiler for next week. We’re going clothes shopping at the thrift store, so put that in your diary for next Friday night. We are picking out some things that are more age-appropriate. Start to bag these up, okay? No cheating.”

She turns and takes a photo of what remains. She counts the hangers. Nothing gets past her.

“No cheating. I promise.” I am completely indoctrinated into her Sasaki Method cult.

“I’ll have a draft of your new dating profile ready by Monday, so buckle up, buttercup. We are going to push the button on that, and we’ll be off to the races.” Over her shoulder she says, “And for the love of God, buy some new underwear.”

Off she goes and I’m struck by how she has a bounce in her step. I think Melanie innately knows what Teddy told me: Walk around like you’re the shit. Feel beautiful. Be sure of it. I can only dream of being as young as Melanie Sasaki.

But with her on my side, maybe I can get back to twenty-five again. She has put so much effort into helping me, more than anyone ever has. I owe it to her to apply myself to this process of self-discovery. There’s no way she wouldn’t be warning me so strongly off Teddy if it wasn’t a total disaster on my horizon.

I go back inside, pick up her completed career worksheet, and begin to research careers to make a short list for her, so I have some hope of repaying her kindness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

This building has a chalkboard sign by the door that has a hand-drawn picture of a plate. Stacked on top is a mess of chalk lines, some curved macaroni bits, and a protruding and phallic hot dog. Above it, in bold letters is: COME AND TRY OUR FRANKENFRIES.

It took me just over an hour to make it to Memory Lanes Bowling Alley. That sounds bad when you learn that the bowling alley is a sedate seven-minute drive from Providence, but my hatchback was surprised to see me and slow to start.

Then I had to dash back up to check my cottage door. Then I sat in my running car and approved some new forum members. I listened to a five-minute meditation. I left and drove back (twice). But I’m here now, and I consider this evening to be a victory.

I get a text from Teddy: Where r u? I’m lonely. I suspect he is hungry. Before I can reply, he begins compulsively texting, and the following are received in the space of a minute:

? My 1939 Dream Girl won’t talk to me

? I am forming a search party with hounds

? Your little Turtle Mobile is gone

? Are you on a date????

? Drowning myself immediately in my bathtub

? Update— drowning in YOUR bathtub, I like it better