“Where’s Rye?”
“Dealing with the plumber upstairs.” Jovie scrapes off another chunk of damaged drywall, then pauses to study me. “You’re the musician who played here the other night, right? Darian?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Jovie. We spoke on the phone the other day.” She wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.
So she’s the one who gave me Rye’s number. I should buy her flowers or something as a thank you.
I study the wall. The water damage extends about four feet up from the floor, and the drywall has that soft, spongy texture that means it’s all got to come out. This isn’t a patch job—it’s a rebuild.
“You need help.”
“I need a miracle.” Another chunk of drywall hits the floor. “But help works too.”
I take off my sweatshirt. “Tools?”
“Toolbox behind the bar. Fair warning though—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“Good thing I do.” I grab a hammer and utility knife from the toolbox. “My dad was a contractor. I spent summers swinging hammers instead of playing Little League.”
Jovie climbs down from the ladder, wiping sweat from her forehead. “You sure? This is messy work.”
“I’m sure.”
Two hours disappear into demolition and repair. We strip out the damaged drywall, inspect the framing underneath, and measure for new sections. Jovie proves to be a quick learner with good instincts, and we fall into an easy working partnership.
It feels good to use my hands for something concrete. Something that produces visible results. There’s satisfaction in tearing out the broken parts and building something solid to replace them.
Jovie hands me screws when I need them and holds pieces steady while I attach them to the studs. By the time we finish the first section, my shoulders ache in a way that feels earned. Physical work has always been good therapy for emotional confusion. There’s something about measuring twice and cutting once that puts the rest of life in perspective.
“You’re pretty handy for a musician,” Jovie observes, mixing joint compound in a bucket.
“Most musicians are handy. You have to be when you can’t afford to pay other people to fix your shit.”
“Good point.” She starts spreading the compound over the seams.
Footsteps echo from the staircase, followed by Rye’s voice calling down. “Jovie, the plumber wants to know if I want him to check the connections behind the bar while he’s here.”
“Tell him yes,” Jovie calls back. “And tell him we’ve got the wall situation handled.”
“What do you mean?” The footsteps get closer. “I thought you said?—”
Rye appears at the bottom of the stairs and stops dead when she sees me. She’s wearing old jeans and a paint-stained t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Even covered in dust and looking frazzled, she’s beautiful.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“Helping,” I say.
Her gaze moves from me to the half-repaired wall, then to Jovie, who suddenly becomes very interested in smoothing the joint compound. “I didn’t ask for help.”
“Your venue needed it. I was available.”
“That’s not—” She stops, running a hand through her hair. “You can’t just show up and fix things.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s not how this works.”
