Page 47 of Objection Overruled
“Look,” I say, grabbing Waffles before he can chew on the baseboards. “I know I’m pushing boundaries. But this is temporary. One bath. No puddles left behind.”
Rowan gestures vaguely at the hallway. “There is water in the grout.”
“Which just proves my dedication to cleanliness!”
He exhales.
I clutch Waffles tighter and try not to let the silence fill with all the things I don’t say out loud:
How I never learned to ask for help without offering cleanup.
How baths were a luxury growing up—cold water, shared towel, timer running and all that jazz.
How I want Waffles to feel safe in ways I never did when I was hiding from my mom’s boyfriends and pretending I didn’t hear yelling through the vents.
Rowan doesn’t ask. Of course, he doesn’t.
But he stares at me, and I think he knows.
And then he turns back toward the hallway, coffee forgotten.
“You missed a spot,” he mutters.
“What?”
He tilts his chin toward the puddle near the rug. “Left of the credenza. Next to the disaster that used to be my peace of mind.”
I blink.
Then beam. “So, you’re letting me finish?”
“No,” he says, flat. “I’m supervising.”
“Oh, good,” I say, hoisting Waffles. “I work better under passive-aggressive management.”
“I’m not passive,” Rowan says, deadpan.
And I swear, I see the corner of his mouth twitch.
Only a little.
But it’s there.
Which means I might survive this day after all.
Maybe.
If Waffles stops shaking.
* * *
We finish the bath.
If “finish” means Waffles only tries to drown himself once more, and Rowan only says “I’m going to burn this apartment to the ground” twice. Which honestly feels like progress.
I towel Waffles off with the least fancy of Rowan’s bathroom linens and carry him out. He’s limp in my arms now, half-asleep and smelling like lavender, with exactly one soap bubble clinging to the end of his tail.
Rowan trails behind me, barefoot and glaring.
