Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59265 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” she said, sounding as close to tears as her baby was.
I hung up, tossed on jeans and a henley, then grabbed an extra in case I got soaked, and jumped in my van to drive from my sleepy suburb to the ritzy gated community of mini-mansions, privacy greenery, and the kind of spotless driveways that made me make sure my van was never leaking any kind of fluids.
Willa’s house hadn’t changed much on the outside since she bought it. The same old maple trees and gardens full of ornamental shrubbery. The same white house and black shutters.
The only thing that was different was that her mailbox door was hanging open, the inside stuffed so full that there was no way the mailman could fit another letter in.
I paused, grabbed the mail, then grabbed one of my toolboxes before making my way to the door.
I barely stabbed my finger into the bell before the door whipped open.
And there she was.
Drenched from head-to-toe, her soaked hair half hanging out of her ponytail. She had a thick blanket thrown over her shoulder and a baby pressed against that blanket to keep the newborn from getting wet too.
The baby was whimpering.
Her mother had red-rimmed and puffy eyes that suggested she’d spent the half an hour it took me to drive over crying with her baby.
“Owen. Thank God,” she said, sniffling. She moved back a step, inviting me in.
“Want me to go back and grab booties?” I asked.
“Why?” she asked, brows lowered. She’d never insisted on it before.
My gaze dropped to the baby’s mostly-bald head, just a few wisps of light brown hair.
“Oh! Oh, no. No. It’s not like she’s on the floor yet. But thanks.”
I gave her a nod.
I wanted to congratulate her.
But she looked so exhausted and vulnerable that I wasn’t sure the words would land right.
“I grabbed your mail,” I told her, placing it down on the nearest console table. “Want to point me in a direction?” I asked.
She looked particularly pained at that.
“The primary bathroom.” I must have given her a look, worried it was something I’d already fixed. “The shower this time. It’s probably throwing a tantrum because I haven’t used it enough lately,” she said with a sad look.
“Alright. Let me go check out the damage,” I said, giving her a small smile as I made my way toward the center stairs.
The house was different than it had been before the baby. Blankets were thrown everywhere: over the railing, stacked on chairs, in a giant, overflowing laundry basket at the top of the stairs. The sink was full, the counters cluttered.
Motherhood had eaten up her housekeeping time.
Her own bedroom was strangely neat, though. Like she hadn’t been inside her own bed in days. She probably hadn’t.
Inside the primary bath, my boots slapped into the water puddles on the floor that Willa hadn’t managed to sop up with the towels and sweaters she had piled in the bathtub.
I walked further in, catching sight of myself in the mirror. I turned, noticing my shaggy, dirty blond hair, stubbly jaw, and brown eyes. But more so than that, I noticed the spots on the mirror.
I couldn’t tell you why, but my first instinct wasn’t to go into the shower and triage the problem.
It was to walk over to the vanity, grab the glass cleaner wipes from beneath, and wipe those spots away.
So that was what I did.
Then I turned to the glass-enclosed shower with its white marble and subtle black veins, its black fixtures, and the collection of shampoos, conditioners, and body washes she took out of their original containers and put into aesthetic black ones instead.
I hated to have to be the one to tell her, but a whole shower wall was going to need to come down. Rationally, the whole thing would need to be taken down to the studs to make sure mold didn’t grow.
It meant all her fancy tile had to go. And, given the placement, the glass door as well.
It seemed like the last thing she needed was bad news. But there was no fixing a pipe behind a wall without busting it open.
I set down my toolbox then made my way back out of the bedroom.
At the landing, I grabbed the basket and carried it down to set it in the doorway of the laundry room before I started looking for Willa.
“Shit. Sorry—” I said when I walked into the living room to find her sitting on the couch in her wet clothes, a blanket draped over her shoulder, and the baby nestled beneath, nursing.
I whipped around to give her privacy.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m… decent enough,” she said, exhaling. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”
I turned back around.
“It’s not good. The whole shower should come down. If you want to save some money, I could try to just dry out the—”