Tank was the kind of dad who made us all pitch in for yard work. “Just because we can afford to pay for something,” I remember him saying more than once, “doesn’t mean we should.” We were quite literally the only family in our neighborhood who didn’t hire a lawn service. Same with the pool, which we cleaned and maintained. He also taught us to cook and clean.
Unfortunately, his training did not extend to plumbing.
“There are easier ways to impress a woman,” Chevy says.
I point the wrench at him. “Shut up.”
“Did you, like, watch a YouTube video on fixing toilets or something?”
“TikTok,” I mutter, removing the lid from the back of the toilet and staring down into it, as though it will answer my questions.
“TikTok? Aren’t those videos, like, thirty seconds long?”
“I got the gist of it.”
“Did you, now?” Chevy asks, laughing. “Because I’m not seeing a lot of results here.”
I’m about to tell him to shut up again when I hear familiar footsteps padding up the stairs. Chevy straightens as Lindy appears in the doorway. She was gone when I got back from football practice and the store—probably working. She told me yesterday she often writes in a coffee shop, which I think is actually her way of avoiding me. She has an office upstairs. Small, but tidy and perfectly usable. Not that I’ve peeked. In any case, I was hoping to get this done by the time she came home.
Leaning on the door jamb, Lindy crosses her arms. “And what, pray tell, is happening to my toilet?”
I twist something inside the toilet with a wrench, unable to resist the urge to look like I’m doing SOMETHING important. Replacing the lid, I casually lean back against the wall. Perhaps I choose a pose I used in a sports drink endorsement. Maybe I flex my pecs unnecessarily. Lindy definitely notices. Faking a yawn, I stretch my arms above my head, which makes my jeans slip down my hips a half-inch. She notices that too.
Lindy rolls her eyes. Not the reaction I was hoping for, but it’s a reaction.
Shaking his head, Chevy says, “Nothing is happening to your toilet, because Mario here doesn’t know how to fix it.”
“Mario?” Lindy and I ask at the same time.
Chevy grins. “Of Mario and Luigi fame. They were plumbers.”
“You’re such a dork,” Lindy says.
“Never pretended otherwise,” Chevy says. “Imma grab another beer while Mario here flexes a few more times for you.”
I look for something to throw at him and settle on an empty water bottle, which bounces off his back and falls to the tile floor. Lindy grins and steps inside the small bathroom to let Chevy pass. I shuffle through the tools on the counter like I have a plan for the next step, when the next step is definitely to call the plumber.
Lindy picks up the hammer. “What are you going to do with this—hit the toilet if it’s bad?”
“Not a terrible idea.”
I turn to face her, leaning against the sink. The bathroom is tiny, and we are toe to toe, our bodies only about a foot apart. I grab the countertop with both my hands, feeling it shift slightly as I do. This whole house seems like it’s one screw from falling apart.
I hold out my palm. “Hand it over. The toilet’s been very, very bad.”
Lindy laughs, clutching the hammer to her chest. I’m drawn to the curve of her smile, the bright flash of her green eyes. My heart thuds at our closeness, at the way she seems to have lowered her guard temporarily.
“Better not,” she says, setting the hammer on the floor out of my reach. “I don’t trust you with this.”