Page 81 of A Really Bad Idea

“I did not say that.” I turn the water back on to rinse the residual suds.

“I heard it in your voice. Who is he?”

“Mom … it’s not—shit,” I shout as water shoots out from the base of the faucet. Not just shoots out. It’s spraying out like a fire hydrant run amok. “I have to call you back. My sink is going haywire.”

I hang up the phone and hit the valve to turn the water off. It stops pouring out of the faucet, but it’s still pushing up from the base.

I grab a dishrag from the counter and try to plug up the problem with my hand, but it’s still shooting up and hitting the ceiling. The rag is soaked. I remove it and get a huge rush of water straight to the face. I let out a squeal at the surge of ice-cold water.

Knock, knock, knock.

“What?” I yell to see who it is.

“It’s Christian,” he shouts from the other side.

I wasn’t expecting him.

I dash over to the door and open it up. He takes one look at my wet T-shirt and sopping hair and then heads over to the kitchen, pausing in the doorway to assess the situation. He crouches down to open the cabinet below the sink and turns a valve. The water stops immediately, and I take in the mess, which is puddles of water … everywhere.

“Aren’t you the guy who always comes to my rescue?” I huff, running a hand over my head to push the loose tendrils back.

He stands up and backs out of the puddle he’s standing in, not even flinching at how the leather of his shoes will warp. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” he states, his eyes fixed on the kitchen, mainly the counters that have water trickling off the edges like mini waterfalls. “You’ve made quite a mess.”

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. I’ll call the super and get this fixed.”

“Don’t. I’ll be right back.” His shoes squeak as he walks out of my apartment and closes the door behind him before I even get a chance to ask where he’s going.

I grab all my large towels from the linen closet and sop up as much water as I can. Then, I throw them in the washing machine. With the mop, I clean the rest of the floor and then dry the counters with more towels. I sift through the bills and lay them down to air dry. My calendar needs to be replaced. I make a mental note not to use my toaster for a month because the inside is soaked.

I’m getting a chill from walking around in wet clothes, so I change into a 2001 98 Degrees Revelation Tour T-shirt and slide on a pair of shorts. I comb my hair and twist it into a high bun.

I’m walking back to the kitchen when the door opens.

This time, he doesn’t even knock.

Christian places a brown bag on the counter and takes out his purchases. He has a new faucet, a wrench, and various other things wrapped in hard plastic.

He takes off his suit jacket and tie, placing them on the stool near the counter. Then, he rolls up his sleeves and takes things out of their hard plastic wrappers.

“What can I do?” I ask.

“Hand me some scissors.” He holds out his hand.

I place it in his palm as I imagine a nurse hands him a scalpel in the operating room. I even utter the word, “Scissors.” Then, I ask him, “Now what?”

“Just relax.” He focuses on setting his wrench to the right size. “Smells good in here. What did you make?”

“Lasagna. It’s delicious, but it sure makes a mess. Want me to heat you up a plate?”

His right dimple appears with a lopsided smile and a twinkle in his eye. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

While he gets down on his knees and empties the cleaning products from the cabinet, I go to the refrigerator and take out the lasagna tray. It might seem like a big meal to make for one, but I love to cook, and this will last me all week.

“When did you learn about plumbing?” I ask as he grabs the wrench and then lies on his back.