Page 10 of Come in with the Rain
“Baby,” he says. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.”
He thinks I’m still upset about our fight, when he said that sometimes I’m too clingy for him, that I need too much. Yes, that hurt. But not nearly as much as what came after.
“Who is she?” I whisper, and it only takes a second for his face to change, for my words to register in his genius’s brain. And just like that, I end everything.
CHAPTER13
STELLA
Iwas never able to take advantage of Mickey’s wealth the way he wanted me to. I would buy clothes at a department store, and he would insist I could buy designer. I never developed a taste for fancy wine or all-day spa getaways. The money wasn’t mine, and the thought of so carelessly spending someone else’s money made my skin crawl.
But now, lying on my musty mattress, staring up at the water spot on my ceiling that seems to have gotten much bigger since yesterday, I miss it all. I miss the way it felt like money could accomplish anything. It’s quite obvious now that my bank account cannot accomplish much.
And even though he admitted to getting involved with that woman, I miss Mickey, too. I miss waking up next to someone. I miss brushing our teeth at our separate sinks. And I miss the sex. I know now that even if it wasn’t everything I wanted it to be, at least it was something.
But it wasn’t Mickey I dreamed about last night. It was Adam. A dream where that soft-looking pink mouth made its way south, all the way to the spot between my legs. He licked and licked and then the rumbling of my neighbor’s garage woke me up. There’s still the ghost of a throb there, in that spot where I swear I can still feel his tongue, and I think about slipping a hand into my underwear but that feels so wrong, getting off while thinking about someone you barely know, who may or may not be the reason your relationship just ended.
I throw my covers off and go to the kitchen to make myself coffee in my fifteen-dollar coffee pot instead of Mickey’s fancy espresso machine. My coffee maker poops out after half my carafe is full, and the coffee tastes like sludge.
I have two interviews today, which is a good thing because all that’s left from my grocery run last week is a box of Pop-Tarts and half a loaf of bread. I stick a pack of Pop-Tarts in the toaster and stare at the credit card on my counter. It has my name on it, but it’s Mickey’s. He insisted I keep it when I left.
“For emergencies,” he said last week when I moved out, but I haven’t used it. When I left, I had enough in my bank account for food and coffee, enough for a refresh on all of my toiletries. But that was about it. I tap my fingers along the bottom edge of the card, and before my Pop-Tarts have resurfaced, I’ve cut the card into pieces. It sits on my counter like a dismembered body, and I stare at it the whole time I eat my breakfast before sweeping it into the trash.
I rinse my plate and turn off the water, but my sink makes a strange sound in the complete silence of my home. It’s hissing, like the sound of carbonation when you open a can of soda. I open the cabinet under the sink and see a small spray of water coming from a rubber hose, right where it connects to a pipe. I know nothing about sinks, but I bend down to look anyway. I reach out to twist the bolt connecting the two pieces, hoping I can tighten it, but the second my fingers touch the metal, the hose snaps and starts spewing water out onto the floor.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
I grab onto the hose like it’s a snake that’s trying to bite me, but that just gets the front of me soaked, and not knowing any other option, I reach for my phone and pray my brother will answer for once.
“Hello?” His familiar voice is like salve on a wound, and I would be relieved if it weren’t for the water glugging its way around my kitchen tile.
“Max! My sink is spewing, and I don’t know how to stop it!”
There’s a beat of silence. The water glugs.
“Your kitchen sink or your bathroom sink?” he asks, far too calm for my taste.
“Does it matter?” I screech.
“Guess not. There should be a knob somewhere. It’s a shut-off valve. See it?”
I glance under the sink, trying to ignore the water cascading down onto my socks. They’re already soggy. Up under the sink, there’s a little silver knob, oblong in shape. I twist it hard, and the water stops. “Okay, I got it,” I tell Max. “What do I do now?”
There’s some shuffling, and Max pulls the phone away from his mouth to say something to someone that’s with him. Then his voice is loud in my ear again. “I don’t know. Have Kline fix it. Isn’t he a super genius?”
“I’m back on Light Street.” Before Mickey, Max and I were sharing the condo, living off of discount meat and bags of rice and pasta. Every day was an endless parade of ridiculous jobs and absolutely nothing of interest. And then Mickey came along and shook everything up with his charming compliments and easy smile, his kindness toward complete strangers, his absolute ingenuity in bed. Max started traveling for work, and that’s been our life ever since. Now I’m back, but Max isn’t.
He’s quiet again as my words sink in. “Shit, Stella. I’m sorry. What happened?”
“He cheated.”
“That bastard,” he growls. “Want me to come over there and cut his balls off?”
It’s strange to be having this conversation while I’m standing in a river of water in my kitchen. “You know,” I say, kicking the broken hose aside. “I was really okay with it until my kitchen flooded. Mickey would know exactly what to do.”
“You’re gonna have to call a plumber, little sis.”
I feel a lump form in my throat, and I cough it away. What a stupid thing to be so upset about. It’s just a broken hose. Do I even need my kitchen sink that badly?
