“I know you will. But you don’t have to be fine alone.”
She slips out before I can point out that she never did give me her number. I stare at the closed door, realizing the house feels emptier without her.
I look around the kitchen; she cleaned all the spilled beans and coffee grounds. My counter shines, and I had no idea she was doing any of that.
Eva Storm blew in here like some sort of sunshine tsunami and cleaned my mess while I ate.
I should hate the intrusion, the disruption. But as I hobble to my office, settling awkwardly into my ergonomic chair that’s all wrong for elevating a broken ankle, I find myself thinking about her grin when she called herself a sweet thing. About the way she made bringing me breakfast seem easy and natural instead of awkward or pitying.
I don’t know if I actually hate that she’s not going away.
And that, more than anything else today, makes me nervous. Because wanting things—wanting people—has never worked out for me.
5
Eva
Lionel helped me get the electricity turned on at Pierce Acres this morning, which was nice of him, considering I’m pretty sure he’s approximately one hundred and fifty years old. He also gave me instructions for turning the water on, but when I trudge into the woods looking for the valve on the pump he mentioned, I find a chunk of metal so rusted I can’t budge it a single millimeter.
I stand in the whispering trees, hands on my hips, staring at the stupid valve like it might magically un-stick itself through sheer force of will.
If I were in Pittsburgh, Esther would have a crowbar handy, and if that didn’t help, she’d call her hunky husband to take care of this. But I’m not in Pittsburgh, and the only hunk I’ve seen around here is the one with the broken ankle.
I had no idea lumberjacks were my type until I spent some time with his hairy attitude yesterday and this morning, and wow. He revs my engine. I’d love to call him and ask him to use those big muscles to crank my valve. I take a minute to imagine it: him with his sleeves rolled up, corded forearms flexing as he pulls on that metal like the Brawny paper towel guy.
Yes, please.
But Asher can barely get down his own stairs, much less wander into the woods on his crutches.
I snicker, imagining him crouching in the dirt as he frowns at my rusty pipes. It’s been a hot minute since anyone was near my pipes.
I bet Asher has a sturdy crowbar somewhere—a real one and a euphemism one. What I need is actual assistance, so I tell myself to stop thinking dirty thoughts about the neighbor.
But I did promise to check in, and I’m ready for lunch. I trace a now-familiar path through the trees to his front porch, knocking before letting myself in. I don’t want him to have to get up.
“It’s me!” I call out.
“In here.” His voice comes from the office. I love that he’s accepted I’m just someone who walks into his house. Makes me feel like I’m around my family. Except a lot of my thoughts about Asher are not familial.
I find him exactly where he ought to be, slumped in a fancy ergonomic chair with his booted foot propped on a cardboard box. He’s staring at monitors but doesn’t seem to be doing anything.
“How’s the work going?”
“It’s not.”
“Pain?”
“Among other things.” He rubs his face. “What’s up?”
I lean against the doorframe. “I have a plumbing situation. Well, not plumbing exactly. A valve situation. It’s stuck, and I can’t turn it, and I need to get the water running.”
Asher nods slowly, processing. “You need the Feed n’ Seed. Down near the diner. Diego’ll have a pipe wrench, maybe some WD-40. The folks there can help you figure it out.”
“Remind me how to get to the diner…”
He shifts in his chair, wincing. “Seriously? There’s like one road.”
I ignore that. “Do you need anything while I’m out? Groceries? Medicine? Razor blades?”
