Page 44 of The Long Way Home
RACHEL
Ishould have left the stupid shower head alone.
That is my first thought while the freezing water blasts me in the face and sprays across the bathroom like a fire hose gone rogue. One second, I was tightening the thing with a wrench, and the next, it snapped loose in my hand, and suddenly, the whole shower was spewing water with the fury of Niagara Falls. This is what I get for thinking I can do it myself.
“Oh my god!” I scream, slipping on the slick tile as icy spray soaks me from head to toe. My hair plasters itself to my face as I twist more knobs. I have no idea what I’m doing. My shirt is clinging to my skin, and the floor tile is already flooding.
I yank at the handle and shove the shower head back against the pipe, hoping it magically reattaches itself. But nothing is working. Water just keeps gushing out, hissing louder, as if it’s mocking me.
Panic claws up my throat. I grab my phone, fingers slipping on the wet screen. I call the first person I can think of: Anderson. He always knows what to do.
“Anderson—it’s—the shower—it broke! Water—everywhere!” I barely make sense, my voice shaking.
“Whoa, slow down,” he says calmly. I can hear people talking in the background. Shit, I’m interrupting him at work. “Did you find the shut-off valve?”
“I don’t even know what that is!” I spin in place like an idiot, staring around the hallway as though the magic valve would appear next to my closet.
“Check under the sink or in the crawl space,” he says. Then he sighs. “Look, Rach, I’m really sorry, but I’ve got meetings all day. It’s like the one day a year I’m actually in the office. So I can’t really leave right now. You’ll be fine. Just—just try Ben, or I can send you a number for my plumber.”
“Shit, yeah. I’m sorry, you must be busy.” I let out a sigh. “Thanks anyway!”
Click.
I want to throw the phone against the wall. When I call Ben, it goes straight to voicemail. And I’m not even a little surprised. I scour my brain for anyone else who might be able to help. Margo wouldn’t know what to do. She’d panic right along with me. Everyone else I can think of is at work.
I look around, and my bathroom is turning into a swimming pool. My hands begin to shake and I can’t stop thinking,I can’t fix this. I can’t fix this.
There is only one name left on my screen. The one I swore I wouldn’t call unless I absolutely had to. And yet, here I am.
I’ve done an impressive job avoiding Rhett for the last three weeks. I skipped the bar night just to make sure I wouldn’t be trapped in the same room as him. Because when he is near me, my thoughts blur. My resolve weakens. I forget why I’m angryin the first place. I told myself meeting him for coffee was safe. Neutral ground. Thirty minutes, max. I planned to stay mad, say what I needed to say, and leave.
Somehow, that turned into me sitting on his couch hours later watching the sun disappear. Eight hours slipped through my fingers like I wasn’t even trying to hold onto them.
That is what he does to me. Something shifts the moment he is around, like a switch flipping in my chest, cutting power to my common sense. I stop being the girl with boundaries and plans and turn into someone reckless, someone who forgets herself just because he is looking at her.
I hate that I lose control with him.
I hate that part of me doesn’t want it back.
My thumb hovers. Really, what choice do I have? I press call.
“Rachel?” His voice is surprised.
“Rhett,” I gasp, “please—I broke the shower, the water’s everywhere—I can’t stop it—”
“Hey, hey, breathe,” he says, steady as a rock. “I’ve got the day off. I’m coming over. Don’t touch anything else. Maybe find a bucket or a bowl and catch some of the water.”
The next fifteen minutes feel like an eternity. By the time Rhett shows up, I’m dripping wet. My clothes are practically see through, and I’m standing barefoot in the hallway with my arms wrapped around myself like that’s going to keep me warm. I probably look like a drowned rat.
No, I’m sure I look like a drowned rat. My shirt clings to my body in all the wrong places, and I’m shivering so hard my teeth almost chatter.
He doesn’t say anything when he comes through the door. Doesn’t waste a single second. Just strides past, completely unaffected by me, drops to one knee by the sink cabinet, and starts rummaging. His movements are confident. By the looks ofit, I’m sure he has done this before. Then there is a twist, a grunt of effort, and—
Silence.
It is so sudden it rings in my ears after the endless roar of water.
I let out a shaky breath that has been trapped in my lungs and lean back against the wall. My heart is finally slowing down, though it still thumps unevenly, as if it hasn’t gotten the memo that the crisis is over. The bathroom is wrecked, water pooling across the tile and seeping into the bedroom carpet. I’m wrecked, too. If you count being soaked through, freezing and utterly humiliated.
