The casual “we” hits me. She counts in twos, even though her husband’s been gone for almost half the time she’s been here. She could mean her and her daughter, but the kid couldn’t have been born when she first moved in. No, that “we” is for the life she built with a man who’s now just a photograph on the wall—she’s half of a pair, still speaking in the plural.
I pretend to examine the pipes again to hide whatever expression might be crossing my face.
“You need a new drain stopper assembly,” I explain, kneeling on the floor beside her. “You’ve got two options.”
She arches an eyebrow.
I hold up my thumb. “Option one: I go buy the part in the morning and install it.”
“You don’t have to work?”
“No, I started my off rotation today. Do you have weekends off, or are you on a variable schedule?”
“No, I switched to a Monday to Friday nine-to-five contract, makes things more manageable with my daughter, Penny.”
“Okay, so we can do this tomorrow. In the meantime, I can restore the water in the rest of the house, but you won’t be able to use the main bathroom.” Her apartment, like mine, must have a half bath, so the situation is survivable for a day.
Lily’s gaze drifts toward her shower longingly. It’s clear how badly she wants to wash off the hospital shift.
“Or?” she prompts.
Her obvious desperation to shower gives me the nerve to offer option two. “We order the part now for one-hour delivery, and you endure my company for a quick takeout dinner while we wait. I install it tonight, and you get your bathroom working before bedtime.”
Our gazes lock, and the offer stretches between us, like a drawn bowstring waiting for release. One that, if you let go too fast, will snap and leave a sharp bruise. Calculations run behind her sad eyes: doubt, hesitation, practical needs, and possibly—hopefully—a hint of interest.
She glances at the shower again, then back at me. Her desire to get clean seems to win out over whatever reservations she has about spending an hour with me.
“Fine,” she says with a nod. “Option two. But dinner’s on me, and I want an invoice for the part to send to Mr. Hagerty.”
I struggle to contain my smile. “Deal.” I check the serial number and brand on the drain and pull out my phone to place the order. “Forty-five minutes to an hour,” I announce, reading the confirmation.
“Great.” She stands, smoothing her hands down her scrubs. “What are you in the mood for—Thai or Mexican?”
“Thai,” I answer without hesitation. “Extra spicy.”
She grabs her phone. “I’ll order from the place around the corner.”
We migrate to the kitchen while we wait. Lily opens the refrigerator, pulls out two beers, and twists off the caps before handing me a bottle. No glasses. I like that.
“Thanks,” I say, taking a long pull of the cold American lager.
We settle on opposite sides of her kitchen counter, studying each other over the tops of our bottles. The fridge hums. The sound of a distant siren bleeds through the window. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Neither of us talks.
The label on my beer is peeling under my thumb when she finally breaks the silence, sounding painfully awkward.
“So? Where are you from?”
“Delaware City,” I tell her, grateful for the easy question.
“That’s on the opposite side of the country. Did you just move here?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“I was tired of small-town life, not much excitement. And I wanted the challenge of California wildfires. To do my job where it’s most needed.”
She flinches, and I realize too late how that must sound to a firefighter’s widow.
