Page 12 of Come in with the Rain
“Where’s Adam?”
There’s banging in the background, and I’m made very aware that Shawn is currently working at Mickey’s place. It’s only been a week since I moved out. He and Adam would be done with the bathroom, probably moving on to the kitchen with everyone else.
I hear Shawn move away from the noise, until eventually it all fades away. I wonder which room he stepped into. “Adam got fired.”
His words hit me quick, like being struck by lightning. “What? Why?”
“Because of whatever he said to you on your balcony last week.”
I press a hand to my face. I knew, just like Adam must have that day, that he was breaking the rules and vaulting over appropriate boundaries, but it certainly wasn’t reason for him to lose his job. Guilt roils in my stomach, but whose fault is it really, mine or Adam’s? “He didn’t deserve that. I could talk to your boss—”
“Between the two of us, Ms. Hart, I don’t think he’s looking to come back.”
“Oh.” Was Adam as unhappy in his life as I was in mine? Maybe he set us both free. “Well, to be honest, I was calling because—” I bury my face in my hands. God, this sounds awful. “I was calling because I thought he might be convinced to do a job for me, pro bono. I have a big leak and no money.”
“Where’s the leak?”
I look down at my soaked towels, my wet clothes, the tube hanging out of my cabinet. “Well, I touched a tube under my sink and it exploded and flooded my kitchen. I got the water shut off, but…” I trail off, and he doesn’t wait for me to finish.
“Sounds like your supply line broke. Look, don’t worry about anything. I got you taken care of.”
And just like that, he’s gone. Doesn’t anyone say goodbye in this industry?
I’m gathering the soaked towels from my floor when my cell rings again. I rush to toss the towels in the bathtub and rub my wet hands on any dry stretch of clothing I can find before answering.
“Hello?”
“Stella?”
It’s unsettling, the way the world seems to go still. How can the voice of a complete stranger be so comforting? “Adam?”
There’s a beat of silence, where the only thing crossing over the line is our mutual breathing, and then he says, “Shawn says you could use some help.”
CHAPTER14
ADAM
If you’d asked me when I woke up this morning how I was going to spend the day, I would have said,Netflix and scraping paint off my front door. I wouldnothave said,fixing a supply line for Stella Hart.
When Shawn called earlier, his exact words were, “Remember that girl whose life you took a shit on? She needs a new supply line, so you better get your ass in gear.”
And thank God because I haven’t stopped thinking about Stella even once for the last week. While I bought paint, I thought about her; while I re-finished my parents’ old dining room table, I thought about her; while I pressure-washed the cobblestone path in front of my house, I thought about her. And I’ve thought about her every time I’ve wrapped my hand around my dick.
Standing in front of her door, I try to quell the guilt rising in my chest at the sight of her building. It’s not a terrible neighborhood, but it’s far from the multi-million-dollar home she was sharing with Kline. Her welcome mat is singed from what looks like cigarette ashes, and from the ash tray sitting on her neighbor’s patio, full to the brim, I can guess who ruined the mat. All that’s left of the number on her door is an outline that’s been sunburned into the paint.
When I knock, the world is so quiet that I hear her feet slapping on the floor as she travels through her condo. “For the record, when I saidpro bono, I meant that I can’t pay youtoday. But I fully intend to pay you as soon as I have enough money,” she says by way of greeting.
She looks completely different than she did a week ago. Her hair hangs lose on her shoulders in disarray, and her face is clean and bare of makeup. She’s wearing jeans and a black t-shirt instead of one of her sexy sundresses. She’s still insanely beautiful, just in a different way.
I hold up the replacement part I brought for her sink. “Least I can do for ending your relationship.” I’m not sure when the words come out of my mouth if they’re the right thing to say, if the joke will land or if she’ll be upset that I mentioned Kline at all, but to my relief, she smiles.
She moves aside, and I step into her condo, the entirety of which could fit into the entryway of Mickey’s place. To the left, the living room is just big enough for her couch and coffee table and TV, sitting on top of a black trunk. To the right, her kitchen offers enough space for one person at a time, the doors of the cabinet under her sink thrown open.
I go straight for it, trying not to get distracted by the little bits and pieces of Stella everywhere: her shoes by the front door, all lined up, a mug on the kitchen counter with a smear of pink lipstick on the rim, a bra thrown over the back of a reading chair over by the window that she’s probably unaware is there. I don’t need all of these details fueling my fantasies. She’s already been enough of a siren to me. It’s hard enough to remember that everyphysicalthing that’s ever happened between Stella and me has happened in my imagination, sometimes several times in one day, without all of this mucking up my brain even more.
The tile in the kitchen is wet, so I crouch down and start working on her sink’s ruined entrails. I work in silence for a little bit, and then she says, from where she’s leaning one hip against the kitchen counter, “I’m sorry you got fired. You didn’t deserve that.”
I’m glad I won’t be expected to make eye contact with her, all of my focus on what I’m doing under the sink. “Sure, I did. I crossed a big line.” More than one, but again, things going on inside my brain don’t count if she doesn’t know about them.
