The steadydrip-drip-dripmatched her life perfectly—a slow leak that was gradually ruining everything underneath. She'd already gone through three bath towels, her "good" tupperware (using it to catch water), and her entire repertoire of creative profanity.
The plumber couldn't come until Tuesday. Five days away. Five days of drip-drip-drip driving her slowly insane like water torture designed by someone who really understood psychological warfare.
"I can fix this," she told herself, the same lie she'd been telling since Derek left and took his toolbox but somehow forgot his emotional baggage. "It's just pipes. How hard can pipes be?"
YouTube University had convinced her it was simple. The perky blonde in the video had fixed her sink in three minutes flat while wearing white jeans. White. Jeans.
Cassie was wearing her period sweatpants (not on her period, just the vibe) and a tank top that said "Rosé All Day", ironically, since she'd moved on to red wine exclusively after the divorce. Red wine didn't judge. Red wine understood.
"Fantastic," she muttered, wedging herself under the sink with a wrench she'd borrowed from Marjorie's husband six months ago and never returned. Ted? Tom? Something with a T. He'd stopped asking for it back after month three. "Lovestarting my Thursday by making out with pipe mold."
The space under the sink was a contortionist's nightmare. She had to fold herself in half, twist her neck at an angle that would require chiropractor intervention, and somehow use both hands while her boob was wedged against the garbage disposal.
The wrench slipped. Water sprayed directly into her face.
Not a gentle mist. Not a refreshing sprinkle. This was aggressive and personal, like the pipes had been waiting for this exact moment of vulnerability.
She lay there for a moment, accepting her fate as the universe's personal punching bag. Water dripped into her eye. Something that might have been mold or might have been hundred-year-old pipe gunk fell into her mouth.
She spit. Gagged. Considered calling Derek just to yell at him for existing.
That's when the hot flash hit.
Not a gentle warming. Not a ladylike glow. This was full-body fire, the kind that made her wonder if spontaneous human combustion was just menopause with commitment issues. Her skin went from normal to surface-of-Mercury in 0.27 seconds.
"Oh, come ON!" She tried to scramble out from under the sink but banged her head on the pipe, which responded by spraying harder. Because of course it did.
She extracted herself like a demon being exorcised—all flailing limbs and unholy noises—and ripped off her cardigan like it was covered in fire ants. The rage came with it—hot, familiar, and looking for a target.
She stood there, dripping, overheating, holding a borrowed wrench like a weapon, and made a decision.
She rage-cleaned.
It was a thing. A terrible, productive thing that happened when her body temperature could melt steel and her emotions had nowhere to go but into aggressive domesticity. She scrubbed counters like they'd personally wronged her, reorganized the spice rack alphabetically (then by color, then back to chaos because who was she kidding, she only used salt and spite).
The paper towel holder got relocated three times. The coffee maker got descaled. She folded dish towels with the precision of someone diffusing a bomb, then immediately unfolded them because the corners weren't quite right.
"Stupid sink. Stupid house. Stupid YouTube lying about how easy this would be."
She grabbed the sponge and attacked a suspicious stain that had been there since 2019. It didn't budge. Nothing ever budged. She was going to die in this house with this stain and this leak and thesehot flashes that made her want to live in a walk-in freezer.
The spellbook watched her from the counter.
No—books didn't watch. Books sat. Inanimate. Full of words, not judgment.
But she could swear this one was... smirking?
She'd moved it there this morning, hadn't she? From the living room? Or had it been the bedroom? The damn thing seemed to migrate around the house like a literary roomba.
"Don't start with me," she told it, pointing with a soapy sponge that dripped onto the floor she'd just rage-mopped. "I'm not in the mood for mysterious magical bullshit today."
The book opened.
By itself.
With a casual flutter, like it was stretching after a nap.
To a page titled "For Repairs and Restoration."
