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“Best sleep I’ve had in months. Quiet, clean, and the coffee never stops.” That one felt personal. Vindicating.

My chest did a strange expanding thing, like my lungs had finally realized they were allowed to take up space.

Another review: “The inn feels alive in the best way. You can tell someone cares.”

I blinked hard and pretended I had something in my eye. Dust. Emotion. Both.

And then…

There it was.

Three stars.

Just sitting there like a mosquito you can’t quite swat.

“The Harringtons,” read Becca, leaning next to me, and I could smell the shea butter from her conditioner.

I clicked it.

“Lovely location,” it began, which felt like the review equivalent of “with all due respect.” “However, we were disappointed to find our preferred room unavailable upon arrival.”

I snorted. “You booked 302.”

Becca made a face. “Keep reading.”

“The breakfast, while adequate, lacked variety.”

“Oh, I’ll show you variety,” said Dottie, swatting her spatula with a sword.

“And,” I kept reading, “we found the overall experience… underwhelming for a romantic weekend.”

What a bitch. Underwhelming. I stared at the word.

“Well,” I said slowly. “A three star is better than a one star,” I told her and handed the phone back.

Becca took her phone. “You’re not spiraling?”

“Oh, I absolutely spiraled internally for about half a second,” I said. “But then I remembered they brought three suitcases for two nights and demanded a room that was already occupied. So…”

Dottie lifted her spatula in a salute. “Perspective.”

“Besides, the majority gave me five-star reviews. I can live with that,” I said. “I don’t need everyone to love it.”

And that was the truth.

“I’ve got to go,” said Becca. “I’ve got a showing. And I’m already late. I’ll talk to you later, cousin,” she added with a laugh and then disappeared through the door.

The kitchen door swung again, carrying voices in from the hall. Luggage wheels. A laugh. The inn in motion.

I took my coffee and headed out, the words from the reviews still buzzing under my skin like a second pulse.

I turned down the hall toward the den, needing quiet, space, a second to let it land.

The room was empty, thank the gods. Sunlight spilled in through the windows, dust motes floating. Edna’s massive self-portrait leered down at me.

“Hey, Edna,” I said, looking up at her. I left the portrait right where it was, a daily reminder she’d been wrong about me.

I sat on the arm of the couch and pulled out my own phone, opening the reviews again. Just once more. For science.