I stood in my apartment doorway, keys dangling from my fingers, watching water drip from my popcorn ceiling onto what used to be my couch. The carpet squelched under my sneakers. My bookshelf—my poor, overloaded bookshelf—had taken the brunt of it, paperbacks bloated and warped beyond recognition.
"No," I said to no one. "Nope. This isn't happening."
It was absolutely happening.
I waded through the mess, phone already pressed to my ear, listening to my super's voicemail click over for the third time. "Mr. Henley, it's Willow in 3B. There's water coming through my ceiling. A lot of water. Please call me back."
I hung up and surveyed the damage. The burst pipe appeared to be somewhere above me—4B'sproblem originally, but gravity had made it mine. My vintage velvet couch was ruined. Half my books were pulp. The sad little succulent on my coffee table had ironically drowned.
I called Mr. Henley again. Voicemail.
Called the building's emergency maintenance line. Disconnected.
Called my parents, then immediately hung up before it rang. I could already hear my mother's voice:Well, honey, if you lived somewhere nicer...
Mika was in Austin for a vintage clothing expo, probably elbow-deep in 1970s bell-bottoms and completely unreachable.
I stood in the middle of my ruined living room, wet socks seeping into what was left of my dignity, and did the only thing a rational adult could do.
I sat on my soggy couch and laughed until I almost cried.
My phone buzzed. Callum.
Confirming Friday. The Whitmore Gallery opening. 7pm.
Right. Our next performance. Another night of pretending we weren't tap-dancing on a land mine.
I typed back:Might need to reschedule. My apartment flooded. Currently living my best swamp creature life.
His response came fast:What happened?
Pipe burst. Super's MIA. I'm pretty sure my couch is developing gills.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Come here.
I stared at the screen.What?
My apartment. Until yours is habitable.
That's not necessary.
Where else are you going to stay?
I looked around at my waterlogged disaster of a home. Thought about the forty-minute drive to my parents' house and the inevitable interrogation that would follow. Thought about sleeping in my car, which, given the French fry situation, would be its own biohazard.
I'll figure it out.
Willow. Come here.
You can't just command me to?—
I'm not commanding. I'm offering. There's a difference.
Is there?
Yes. Commanding would be: "Get in an Uber right now or I'm coming to get you myself."
