“Maybe both.”
*
I slept fitfullywith the memory of Patrick’s lips and his hand under my shirt on heavy rotation in my dreams. Eventually, I surrendered to my insomnia with an unfocused hour of Pilates before sunrise.
I showered and dressed in black wool trousers, black Merino turtleneck sweater, and black leather boots that laced up to the knee. Even by Maine standards, the cold was brutal, and I piled on the layers before heading out.
I loved keeping my car in the Walsh garage and living within walking distance of the office, but these days made me long for door-to-door driving. Checking the time on my phone, I noticed a missed call from Patrick and played the voicemail.
“Hey Asani, pipes froze and burst overnight at Foster Street. It’s a block away from my place so I got here as soon as the GC called. I need you to check on our other sites while I try to salvage the hardwood here,” Patrick shouted over the rush of running water. “Call me with any floods.”
I grabbed a few supplies and swapped out my outfit for flannel-lined jeans, two thermal shirts, and royal blue Wellies, and mentally cataloged our properties by pipe age. An 1806 farmhouse would require the lion’s share of my attention.
The day flew by in a blur of cold and wet. The subzero overnight temperatures froze delicate plumbing systems all over town, and while the majority of our jobsites suffered no damage, I spent my day aiming a hair dryer at old pipes in cold, wet basements to keep them damage-free. I lost contact with my toes a little before noon.
Patrick and I exchanged a few brief texts during the day to update each other, but I couldn’t get a read on his mood. I wanted him to remind me about drinks tonight, make another attempt at a road trip to New Hampshire, or suggest we finish what we started last night.
It meant arriving at the bar after seven, but stopping at home to change into dry clothes was a necessity. Thick socks and lace-up boots took the edge off the bone-deep chills, and I hoped Patrick was interested in warming up the rest of me.
It wasn’t hard to find the Walsh table, especially considering a chorus of voices that yelled “Andy” the minute I stepped through the door. If nothing else, Shannon’s hair was a bright beacon drawing me to the back corner. I quickly inventoried the table—Shannon, Matt, Lauren, Sam, Riley, Tom, and someone I didn’t recognize next to Shannon and Matt.
A flare of disappointment hit me—no Patrick. He was probably tied up with his share of issues. I fixed a smile on my face and headed for the table.
“Hey, girl,” Lauren yelled, standing to welcome me with a hug. “Good to see you.”
“Any more water damage?” Matt asked.
Riley and Sam sat across from Matt at the table, their heads bent in conversation. Riley shared the same dark hair and slate blue eyes as Matt, though Sam was leaner with a lighter complexion and Patrick’s auburn hair. There was no doubting they shared a bloodline.
Lauren gestured to an empty seat facing away from the door between Sam and the stranger with thick, tousled dark hair. “Some leaks, thankfully no floods. I did some intensive pipe triage to keep it that way.”
“What can I get you?” the waitress asked over my shoulder.
“Shiraz. Whatever the house bottle is,” I replied. “Any news on Foster?”
Matt nodded slowly, and my attention turned to Lauren’s hand on his knee. He layered his hand over hers, his thumb brushing across the ring on her finger as he spoke about the flooding and restoration efforts. The gesture was simple but said so much. The love between them was palpable, and I got the distinct impression they were an eye-blink away from climbing all over each other.
“Hello,” the stranger said, angling his head to face me. I noted a slight southern accent.
“I’m the worst,” Shannon groaned. “Sorry. Andy, this is…” She scowled at him. “What are you? This is Nick Acevedo, and he’s the guy who hangs around with Matt. It’s kind of a problem, actually. He’s a level five clinger, so definitely don’t pay any attention to him or you’ll never get rid of him. Nick, this is Andy Asani, and she puts up with Patrick.”
“The next time you think your headache is a brain tumor, don’t call me, Shannon,” Nick drawled with a laugh. “It’s good to meet you, Andy.”
I shook his hand, soon releasing it to accept my drink. He started to speak again, but Sam pivoted and draped his arm over the back of my chair.
“I tried that Night Walker juice. With the beets and kale and jalapeño?”
“And?” A smirk tugged at my lips. Few possessed the constitution of will necessary to drink raw beet juice.
Sam laughed and patted his stomach. “And it put a little hair on my chest. How can you drink that?”
“You get used to it. Once you’re off processed sugar, it is fantastic.” I shrugged. “It gives me a ton of energy.”
“Don’t get him started on banning more foods,” Shannon yelled down the table. “He only eats spinach and seaweed as it is, and he’s a little more than borderline OCD about it.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I haven’t touched processed anything in years, and I still gagged. It looks like blood,” he laughed. “The subcontractors gave me some strange looks when I rolled up with a bottle full of dark red juice.”
“They give you strange looks regardless.”
