Page 1 of Between the Lines

1

Fia

Inever claimed to be an expert on how houses are built, but I’m almost one-hundred-percent positive it’s not supposed to rain inside your house.

And yet, another drop of water hits me in the eye as I gape at the ceiling outside my bedroom door. Daisy laughs at my bewilderment, the way only a toddler can.

“This is not funny,” I tell my daughter, who continues to find the plinking of water hilarious. She claps her sticky little hands together. The verge of my meltdown is the best entertainment she’s had all day.

A few more drops splash the old oak floors.

I should call someone.

Someone who is not me. Someone who is qualified to deal with rain coming through your roof. On instinct, I unlock my phone and swipe to my older brother’s name . . . then I stop, belly full of dread.

I’ve survived two months since Danny moved out. Two freaking months before something happened. He would know how to fix this.

But that’s not an option, not if I want to keep living here.

I swore up and down to him and my sister, Penny, that I was more than capable of taking care of the hundred-year-old Victorian our nan left to us. They have tried countless times to get me to move out, so we can sell it and they can cut their losses because the old house is more trouble than it’s worth to them.

If they find out about this leak . . . that may as well be the final nail in the coffin.

With a huff, I slide my phone back into my pocket and do the next logical thing: I run and grab the largest soup pot I can find buried in the kitchen cabinets and place it directly under the leak.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Daisy bounces on my hip while I wipe sweat from my brow.

It’s only June, the summer storms in Wilmington are just beginning, and on top of the roof leaking, the AC is on its last leg.

I avert my gaze from the murky water bubbling out of the plastered ceiling and smile at Daisy. “That’ll have to do for now. Plus it’s somebody’s bath time.”

The dripping water plops louder and Daisy peers up at me with big green eyes.

“Uh-oh.” She shakes her head.

“Exactly.” I sigh. “Big uh-oh.”

Kneeling beside the clawfoot tub, I swirl the water with a lazy finger around my fourteen-month-old daughter. It’s the same tub I was bathed in as a child. That means something to me, even if my siblings couldn’t care less.

I hand Daisy a rubber duck, and she starts gnawing on it like a puppy. The rain outside grows more intense against the clapboard siding of the house. I glance out the ajar bathroom door and down the hallway towards my brother’s old bedroom.

It sounds like it’s raining in there, too.

I lay my head on the lip of the tub and groan.

“Well . . . isn’t that just our luck?”

Daisy responds by splashing the iridescent bubbles around her.

An hour later, as the rain turns to a comforting drizzle, and Daisy sleeps soundly in the room next to mine, I cuddle up in my own bed. I should sleep, tomorrow is a big day at work, but instead, I pull out my e-reader and opt to get lost in a new cowboy romance I downloaded yesterday.

Nearly ten minutes into reading about strong men who straddle bulls, a tightening sensation creeps up my chest.

I take a sip of water.

It does nothing to ease the burn.