“Do you really want to be one of those couples who has messy fights in public?” I ask, before he can do any of that. “People are staring, not in a good way.”
His jaw snaps shut, as if he’s just now realizing we’re not exactly alone at this bar. A few people really are peering our way—an argument will only attract more of them. “Good thinking.” Said through gritted teeth.
“Great.” I grab my purse. “See you at home.” And he shifts over so I can slide out of the booth.
The worst part of all this is that I can’t even be mad at him. We agreed everything between us was strictly business. I’m the one who crossed the line.
I walk out quickly, glancing back only once, just in time to see him call the waitress back and point to the bar, clearly ordering a drink. I turn away in case he’s patting the seat next to him, inviting her to sit with him or possibly on his lap.
I keep walking out of the bar, where I summon an Uber from the curb. Five minutes to stand here. Five minutes to wish Brayden would come running out to get me before I leave. I can’t even go back if I wanted to; not dressed like this. Not with my tears testing the limits of my waterproof mascara.
So I ride home, blinking back my tears at this whole situation—at Brayden for asking me to marry him and telling me it wouldn’t mean anything. At myself for believing him.
The house is no less forebodingthis late at night. Blank walls. Sterile kitchen. I storm around, still angry. I fling open a cabinet—the one with all the whiskey bottles—and stare at them for a minute. I recognize some of the labels from my father’s liquor cabinet at home. Only it’s not my home anymore. I fumble out my phone, hit his number. It goes directly to voicemail.
Right.If Brayden can spend his time partying, so can I. I grab a bottle of the most expensive whiskey—the price of this could pay the better part of my tuition—and glug it into a glass. Take a tiny sip.
It’s not sweet.And yet he was for thinking about what I can and can’t drink. For having tried, even imperfectly. We’re pretending to be in love.Pretending, I remind myself. I take another long sip of whiskey, relishing the burn. Why are things that are so good also the things that hurt a little?
That’s the whiskey talking.
I heft the glass as if toasting the hyper-clean kitchen around us. Then go over and dump the whole thing into the sink. It’s not enough. I grab the bottle, upend it. Literal money down the drain. For a minute, the kitchen is entirely silent, except for the sound of expensive liquor seeping into the plumbing.
I run the water to get rid of the smell, jerking the faucet handle a little harder than I should.
Then the handle comes off in my hand.
So a lot harder than I should.
Water keeps running. I try to reattach the sink handle, to manually manipulate the part underneath. It doesn’t help.Water is runninghard. The sink starts to fill. Then, below the sink, there’s a noise. A drip.
That’s weird. I duck down to examine the sink. Another few drips echo through the kitchen, each coming faster and faster. One noise, then two, then a whole succession of them, and by the time I open the cabinet below the sink, there’s practically a flood.
I can’t stop the water from the sink, and I can’t drain the water fast enough to prevent it from gushing out. How long has this been happening? I can’t tell. But it’s happening now, water flowing out at an increasing rate. I need…a bucket? A wrench? Something?
Someone to come fix this for me.
That’s always my solution, isn’t it? Getting someone to swoop in to save me. Okay, deep breath, step one. I rifle through the pantry until I find the mop bucket. I stick that under the pipe. Instantly it starts to fill. That’ll only buy me so much time. I googleemergency plumbersand call the first number on the list. No answer. The bucket keeps filling. I call the second one and at least get hold music…that transfers me to voicemail.
For a moment, I wish I was back in California, having brunch with Victoria as we dished about this whole situation over waffles. She might not get it. But she started an OnlyFans with two members of the baseball team she worked for, so maybe she would.
If I called, Victoria would probably pick up. Even with the time difference, it’s still late. I don’t want to be one of those friends who only reaches out when things are bad.
I don’t know who else to call. Lexi seems like she’d know a plumber. But she also might let it slip to the other WAGs that I needed one because Brayden was unavailable.
I need someone to help me—someone who won't make me think this whole situation is my fault. Or at least will make me laugh about it.
I shouldn’t text him. I know I shouldn’t. It’s almost one a.m. I should just empty the bucket, put down some towels, and go to sleep. This isn’t even my kitchen—I’m just living here for a while.Call it a night and let someone else deal with it.What my father would tell me to do: some problems are most solvable with the direct application of money.
That would be thesmartdecision—to remove myself from the situation and let someone else solve it. But I tap out a message. Hit send. Wait as the receipts flash fromdeliveredtoread.
Me: Can you come over?
AA: Be there in twenty, princess
Chapter Twenty-One
Asher
