Page 36 of The Path to Loving Him
“I’m hanging up.”
“Go talk to him—” She’s able to get those words out before I disconnect.
I set my phone on the counter and glance at the bathroom. Come on, I’m a smart, independent woman who has been on my own forever. I can figure this out.
I just need a better look.
Heading back into the bathroom, I cinch my robe tighter and throw my hair up into a clip. I get down on my knees to lean over the tub and inspect the shower faucet.
I study it for a few seconds, taking in the workings to make sure I’m not missing anything. You know, sometimes there’s a secret button to make the shower work that not all showers have, just the annoying ones where people thought they would be different with the type of faucet system they chose.
Here’s what I think: if I ever became president, I would make it mandatory for all showers to be the same. None of these pull ups and pull downs and press the button and swivel the toggle. No, they would all work the same so we don’t have issues like this.
After examining it for a few more seconds, I turn the shower back on and wait for the water to come out . . .
The pipes groan.
They moan.
They act like they’re on the brink of orgasm ready to squirt . . .
But nothing happens.
Maybe the pipes need some . . . stimulation.
I knock on the white tiled wall above the faucet to see if that helps.
But nothing.
I knock a little harder . . . because maybe this bitch likes it hard like I do.
But nothing happens.
I sit back on my heels, growing infinitely more frustrated. With one last effort, I slam my fist against the wall, only for the faucet to groan so loud that I fear it might blow right off.
That’s not good.
The last thing I need is for the faucet to pop off and for water to flood the apartment because then what would happen? Can’t live in a watery, mildewy apartment.
I quickly turn off the water and then lean against the tub.
Fuck.
Maybe . . . maybe I can take a bath in the sink?
I lift from the floor and stare at the minuscule sink in front of me.
I don’t even think my arm could get a good rinse. Nor would I be able to wash my hair.
Mother . . . fucker.
I look up at the mirror, staring at my reflection. What are my options?
Well . . . I saw a hose out back. That’s one way to make my nipples freeze off. Not to mention, if Daddy Landlord—don’t tell Bower I used that term—saw me hosing down, he might evict me.
I could go stay at the inn, but that place is pricey. Very pricey.
There is a truck stop about forty-five minutes away that I know has showers because I saw them once and thought, what an unpleasant place to shower given how grubby it was.
