“The part should be here soon,” I say abruptly, pushing my chair back. I grab the carton of unfinished food that I was enjoying a second ago, but that now only makes my stomach churn. I drop it on the counter, turning my back to him. I need space, air, distance from whatever is happening in my head.
I can’t see Josh’s face, but the apologetic tentativeness in his tone is loud. “Right. I should wash this out before the stain settles. Mind if I use the half bath?”
I keep my back to him. “Not at all.”
I busy myself with clearing containers, desperate to regain my balance. But as I scrape leftover food into a Tupperware, I can still hear the echo of my laughter. Feel the glow Josh’s smile sparked in my chest, a warmth I thought had died forever along with my husband four years ago.
6
JOSH
I’ve messed up.I scrub the T-shirt between my palms, working the fabric back and forth until the stain blurs.
“Way to be cool, Collins,” I mutter to myself as I turn off the faucet and wring the bulk of the water out. “Extra points for being smooth.”
I made Lily laugh—mission accomplished—but then I had to freak her out by saying I’d ruin my entire closet just to hear that sound again. She looked at me like I’d confessed to setting up surveillance cameras in her bedroom. Smooth indeed.
The half bath is barely big enough for me to turn around without banging my elbows on something. It’s decorated in that generic apartment beige with small feminine touches added in: a lavender hand towel, a little ceramic dish for soap shaped like a seashell, and a framed print of a beach at sunset. Practical, stitched with tiny threads of whimsy. Just like Lily.
How has this woman locked herself in my head before I even knew I’d left the door open? That laugh—not even kidding—nearly took me out at the knees. And her eyes when they light up? Forget about it.
But she’s not just any woman. Lily is the widow of a fallen firefighter from my station. She’s raising a daughter alone, carrying around enough grief to sink a battleship. And I’m a breathing reminder of the ghost she can’t escape.
I unfold the T-shirt to check the residual damage. The stain hasn’t budged much and now the fabric is also soaked through. But I can’t walk around her apartment shirtless—she’d write me off for good—so I pull the damp shirt over my head. The wet cotton sticks uncomfortably to my chest and back, but I’ll live.
The doorbell rings, and I take one last look in the mirror. Stress-rumpled hair? Check. Shirt soaked enough for a cameo on a trashy spring break TV show? Check. Stupid grin that says “I’m trying too hard”? Double-check. Perfect.
I step into the main room just as Lily heads for the door, her face set in a neutral mask.
“That must be the part.” She keeps her gaze on her toes, her voice a little too controlled.
“I’ll get it,” I offer, stepping forward.
“Okay, I’ll finish here.” She slips past me and darts back into the kitchen, pretending our zero-dishes dinner is a cleanup emergency.
The delivery guy is a bored-looking teenager who hands me the package without making eye contact, already turning away before I can say thanks. I close the door and get to work in the bathroom, laying out the tools I’ll need and unpacking the spare parts.
For the next twenty minutes, I work on installing the new assembly, making sure everything is sealed and tightened.
“How’s it looking under there?” Lily’s voice startles me.
I peek my head out and find her hovering in the doorway.
“Almost done,” I announce, giving the pipes one last check. “Just need to turn the water back on and test it.”
“I’ll let you finish.”
I double-check everything and when I slide out from under the sink and stand, Lily is no longer in the hallway. I wipe my hands on a shop towel from my kit and turn the valve. I run the faucet, checking for leaks.
Perfect. Dry as a bone.
I pack up my tools and go back to the living room.
Lily is curled in a corner of the couch, knees drawn up to her chest, staring at nothing. The TV is off, and she’s a million miles away. Her eyes are dry but haunted, unfocused. The sight of her like this, small and vulnerable, knots something in my gut I can’t untangle.
I make my approach noisy on purpose, clearing my throat so as not to startle her.
“Hey,” I say, stopping a few feet from the couch. “Your sink is like new. Should be good for another thirty years.”
