Chapter 10: The Day Before
The ice machine hummed.
It was a small sound—barely audible over the highway traffic—but after weeks of silence from that corner of the parking lot, it felt like a symphony. I stood in front of it, listening to the compressor cycle, watching the first ice cubes tumble into the bin.
Fixed.
The salvage part from Elmdale had cost forty dollars and three hours of installation. Worth every penny, every minute. Six rooms functional now instead of four. Not much, but visible progress.
Stevie appeared beside me, two coffees in hand—the decent stuff from Café Tropical, not the vending machine poison.
"It's making ice."
"Told you."
"You said you'd try. There's a difference."
She handed me a coffee. We stood together in the pale morning light, watching the machine do what machines were supposed to do.
"You know what's weird?" she said.
"What?"
"This is the most optimistic I've felt about this place in years. And all that changed is one guy started fixing things."
"It's not just me. You've been here keeping it running the whole time."
She snorted. "I've been here watching it die slowly. That's not the same thing."
I thought about the first day I'd walked into this lobby—the stained carpet, the buzzing lights, the weight of years pressing down on every surface. The motel wasn't transformed now. Still worn. Still tired. But something had shifted in the quality of the decay.
Maybe that's how change starts. Not with transformation, but with the sense that transformation is possible.
"What do you want?" I asked.
Stevie's eyebrow lifted. "We've done this conversation."
"I'm asking again."
"Why?"
"Because I think your answer might be different now."
She was quiet for a long moment. The ice machine hummed. A truck passed on the highway. The small sounds of a world continuing.
"I want this to matter," she said finally. "Same as before. But maybe—" She stopped. Started again. "Maybe I'm starting to believe it could."
I let the words settle. Filed them away with everything else I knew about Stevie Budd—the defensive sarcasm, the hidden hope, the grandmother's garden she still saw when she looked at dead weeds.
"I'm trying to be different," I said.
The admission came out before I could filter it. Too honest, too vulnerable, too much like something Mutt would never say.
Stevie turned to look at me. Really look.
"Why?"
Because I woke up in a body that isn't mine. Because I have abilities I don't understand. Because I know what's coming and I want to make it better.
"Because the old way wasn't working."
She nodded slowly. Not convinced—not yet—but something had shifted in her expression. The first thing I'd said that she fully believed.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. I believe you're trying."
She walked back toward the lobby, coffee in hand, and I watched her go with a feeling I couldn't quite name. Not victory. Not satisfaction.
Trust. The beginning of it.
The phone call came around noon.
Roland's voice was excited in that particular way that meant he had gossip too good to keep quiet.
"Mutt! You'll never believe this. Rich family, video rental empire, millions of dollars—all gone. And get this: they bought our town years ago as a joke. Now they're coming to live here!"
I held the phone away from my ear, letting the enthusiasm wash over me.
"When?"
"Tomorrow! Can you believe it? Real celebrities, right here in Schitt's Creek. Moira Rose was on a soap opera—Sunrise Bay. Very dramatic stuff."
"That's... something."
"I'm going to greet them personally. Make sure they feel welcome." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial tone. "Between you and me, this could be good for the town. New blood, fresh perspectives. Maybe they'll invest in something."
They won't invest, I thought. They have nothing left to invest. What they'll do is learn, and grow, and accidentally transform everything they touch.
"Sounds exciting, Dad."
"You should come! Be part of the welcoming committee."
"I might do that."
Roland launched into speculation about what the Roses might contribute to the community. I listened with half an ear, my mind already racing through possibilities.
Tomorrow. The timeline catches up tomorrow.
That evening, Stevie asked if I wanted to grab dinner.
The invitation was casual—thrown out while she counted the day's receipts—but something about it felt significant. Not a date. Not quite. But an acknowledgment that our relationship had moved beyond handyman-and-desk-clerk.
"Café Tropical?" I suggested.
"Only place in town."
"That's a yes?"
"That's a reality check."
We walked the three blocks together, passing storefronts I'd memorized by now. The hardware store with the perpetual SALE sign. The defunct hair salon. The empty lot where something had stood before I arrived.
This is my town now, I realized. Not just a set I recognize. An actual place where I live.
The thought should have felt strange. Instead it felt like settling into a chair that had finally molded to my shape.
Twyla greeted us with her usual warmth. "Together?"
"Just dinner," Stevie said quickly.
"Of course! Booth in the back?"
The menu at Café Tropical was legendary in its absurdity—five pages of dishes from a dozen cuisines, all prepared by a kitchen that could barely handle toast. I ordered a burger. Stevie ordered what she called "the only safe option": grilled cheese.
"So," she said, after Twyla had retreated. "Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"The Roses. You heard about them?"
"My dad called."
She leaned back in the booth, arms crossed. "Rich people losing everything, forced to live in a town they think is beneath them. This is going to be a disaster."
"Maybe."
"No maybe. I've seen the type. They'll complain about everything, demand things we can't give them, and make everyone's life miserable until they find a way to leave."
That's not how it goes, I thought. But I can't tell you that.
"Or they might surprise you."
Stevie laughed—short, sharp, disbelieving. "Surprise me how? By being grateful? By adjusting quickly? By treating people like human beings instead of staff?"
"I don't know. But people can change. We've established that."
She was quiet for a moment, studying me across the table.
"You really believe that."
"Yeah. I do."
The food arrived before she could respond. We ate in a silence that wasn't quite comfortable but wasn't hostile either. Two people on the edge of something, waiting to see which direction it would tip.
"Fine," Stevie said finally.
"Fine what?"
"Fine, I'll give them a chance. The Roses. But when they turn out to be exactly what I expect, you're buying dinner next time."
"Deal."
She almost smiled. Progress.
We walked back to the motel under a sky full of stars I never would have noticed in the city. The cold had sharpened, winter reminding us it wasn't done yet, but the air felt cleaner than anything I remembered from before.
"Thanks," Stevie said, pausing at the lobby door.
"For dinner?"
"For—" She shook her head. "For trying. Even if I don't understand why."
"You don't need to understand."
"I know. That's the weird part."
She went inside. I stood in the parking lot for a moment longer, looking at the motel sign that had flickered for years without anyone caring enough to fix it.
Tomorrow, I thought. Tomorrow everything changes.
The Roses would arrive with their designer clothes and their devastated finances and their complete inability to function without servants. They would hate this place. They would fight with each other. They would make everything harder before it got easier.
And somewhere in the chaos, something beautiful would start to grow.
I walked back to the barn under stars that belonged to this life now, this body, this moment. The countdown was over. The real story was about to begin.
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