32 MADDY
MADDY
I am not made for the kitchen
Apparently, everything.
The kitchen looks like a crime scene. There are dishes everywhere. On the counter. In the sink. Somehow on the living room table. My apron is streaked with sauce, the stove is making an alarming noise, and something is very clearly overcooking.
How did I even manage this?
I drag a hand down my face, but my fingers come away sticky. I blink and look at my hand to see tomato sauce. Why is there tomato sauce on my face?
I sniff the air. Oh no.
“Oh no, no, no—”
I lunge for the oven and yank it open just in time to be blasted with smoke. Whatever I was making is officially beyond saving. I grab the tray, immediately regret that decision, and hiss as I drop it back onto the stove.
“Shit,” I mutter, shaking my hand. “Shit, shit.”
I turn, knocking into the counter, which sends something metal clattering to the floor. I can’t even look, because I’m too busy trying to remember if I ever learned how to put out an oven fire.
I grab a towel, wave it uselessly, and in the process knock over a bottle of something. It hits the sink with a loud crack. And then—water splashes in my face. Not a drip. Not a polite leak. A spray.
“Oh my god,” I say, staring as water shoots out from under the sink. I crouch, fumbling blindly, trying to twist something—anything—that looks like it might turn the water off, but it does not help. The water only comes out harder.
“Okay,” I say, voice climbing. “Okay. This is fine. I can fix this.”
The floor is already soaked, my socks are getting wet, the towel is useless, and everything is loud and wet and getting worse.
Noah and Dad are like, an hour and a half away—at least. So they are useless.
I scramble for my phone. Liam goes straight to voicemail. Mel doesn’t pick up. I try Kiara. Nothing.
Why is no one picking up their goddamn phone?
I stare at my screen, water pooling around my feet, heart racing. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Guess there’s only one option left.