“Oh my god!” she shrieks loudly from the other side of the door.
“What is it?” I demand, bracing for carnage.
“I got a job offer from Quinn & Wolfe,” she screams. “Can you even believe it?”
My heart does this weird leap—not the good kind. It’s ridiculous because she interns there. This is hardly a surprise.
Of course I’m happy for her. Statistically, only around 40 percent of interns land a job offer with them, but I knew she’d be one of the chosen ones. She worked so hard.
But hearing his name out of the blue still brings a sting of hurt. Time will continue to dull the pain . . . I hope.
“That’s amazing, Grace,” I manage to yell back, summoning every ounce of supportive sister I have in me.
I even manage a genuine smile, thinking of Dad’s worn-out joke. Anytime “Amazing Grace” was mentioned, he’d launch into his own rendition. “. . .how sweet my girl is,” he’d croon, then grin like he just nailed a stand-up set at the Comedy Cellar. It was equal parts endearing and cringeworthy.
“But obviously, I’m not gonna take it,” she hollers. “Just wanted to see if I could do it.”
“Sure,” I say, playing along. She’ll take it; I’ll make sure of it. Even if I have to drag her to the office myself. “We can talk after you’re done with your bath.” And after I’ve had a stiff drink.
Grace is making a racket in the bath, likely trying to handle her phone with soapy hands. I’m mentally preparing to refuse another phone bailout. “Don’t drop your phone in there,” I holler, preempting the inevitable tech rescue mission.
“Yes, Mom,” she quips.
Seriously?
“Let’s get drinks to celebrate,” I suggest, trying to be the cool sister. “But watch the bath, will you? Make sure it isn’t too full.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, probably with a soapy wave I can’t see.
I’m starting to feel like the grumpy old caretaker of the house, always on her case. But if that bath water gets higher than the overflow drain, it’s less “splashy bath time fun” and more “apologies and gift baskets to the downstairs crew.” My diploma from YouTube’s School of Plumbing is definitely being put to the test.
Dragging myself back to my laptop, I’m ready to plow through work.
That is, until Sunnyhill decides to steal my breath with an email subject line that reads like a horror movie title:
Sunnyhill Care Facility Payment Update.
I hesitantly click, my trepidation morphing into outrage. Rates rising another 5 freaking percent in six months?! My blood pressure is skyrocketing by 500 percent rightnow.
Five percent might as well be a million. It’s too much.
My chest tightens like icy hands have gripped my ribs and are pushing inward. Maybe the ghost of the vengeful plumber.
As I’m mentally drafting a venomous email, another shriek blasts from the bathroom.
“Lexi!”
What now? How many monumental discoveries can one have in a bathroom? Did she find the entrance to Narnia behind the toilet?
“The toilet,” she yells.
Oh, brilliant.
I sprint back to the bathroom, and she bursts out the door, towel-clad, gesturing wildly at our new water feature.
The bathroom floor is a dirty water runway, courtesy of our now-overflowing toilet. It’s like a shit geyser.
“It overflowed,” Grace states, as if it weren’t glaringly obvious. “I flushed, and it just exploded back at me.”
