Across the street, Mrs.Mather’s curtain flutters again.
Excellent.
I hop back onto the porch, heart hammering, staring at the hole where the step used to be.My leg throbs, scraped and angry, but nothing feels broken.
Still—blood is blood.
Him: 1.
House: 1.
Me: 0.
I fish around for the receipt in my pocket like it personally offended me.His number is scrawled there in that blocky, efficient handwriting of men who write only when they have to—lists, measurements, warnings.
Depends what you want,he said.
What I want is to not be the woman who calls a stranger because she can’t manage a simple porch step without falling through it.What I want is to be the kind of person who arrives in a new town and is left alone.
What I get is myself, sitting on a sagging porch, with a gash in my leg, doing the math on how long my savings will last if I break something important in my body or the house.
It’s not a generous equation.
I grab my phone out of my back pocket and stare at the screen.Service is spotty enough that the little bars flicker like a heartbeat on a bad day.The realtor texted:Congrats again!So excited for your new chapter!
She used three emojis, which should have been my first red flag.
I stare at the phone in one hand, receipt in the other.
“You are not calling him,” I tell myself.
I smooth the receipt out anyway.His number is there, clear, patient.Waiting.
It occurs to me then that this is how it happens.You make a choice because you’re tired, because something hurts, because the house is bigger than you, like he said.You tell yourself it’s temporary.Just a fix for the step.Just help with the front door.Just until you get your feet under you.
Just this once.
I type his number with more force than necessary, like I can punch my way through my own pride.My thumb hovers over the call button.I picture him in that truck, hands on the wheel, face unreadable, already knowing I’d cave.I picture the way he watched me, cataloging me the way I cataloged the house.
He knows doors.He knows weak spots.
The phone rings once.Twice.
My pride wins.
I hang up.
The screen lights back up.I stare at it, startled, then realize of course he’s the type to call back.
I answer before I can think better of it.“Hello?”
“You hung up,” he says.His voice is lower through the speaker, rougher, like gravel under tires.
“Service is spotty,” I lie.
“Right,” he says, and somehow it doesn’t sound arrogant.Just factual.“You fall?”
Heat crawls up my neck.“Why would you assume I fell?”
