8. Bethany
Chapter eight
Bethany
By mid-afternoon, I am lying halfway under a bathroom sink in a rental unit.
The property owner, Mrs. Halverson, stands in the doorway behind me, narrating my work. It makes me feel like I am either unprofessional or a suspicious raccoon she has discovered in her cabinets.
“Do you think it’s serious?” she asks.
A bead of water slides off the pipe joint and lands directly on my wrist.
I stare at it.
The leak has soaked through the bottom of the vanity, warped the cheap particleboard, and created a damp little ecosystem under the drain.
So, yes. Serious is one word.
Instead I say, “It’s fixable.”
Because that is what people like to hear from me.
Fixable.
Manageable.
Nothing to worry about.
Never mind that I am currently wedged between a toilet and a cabinet door with a flashlight in my armpit and a growing suspicion that the last person who worked on this pipe tightened everything with pliers and a fair amount of unresolved anger.
Mrs. Halverson sighs. “I’m so relieved you could come. I know this is probably outside your normal hours.”
It is.
It is also outside the price range she seems to expect, because her text used the phrases tiny drip and whenever you can.
“No problem,” I say.
The lie comes out automatically.
This is the part of owning a small maintenance business that no one talks about on the inspirational podcasts.
No one says, Congratulations, you work for yourself now. Every person who knows your cousin’s neighbor will expect bargain rates, unlimited availability, and cheerful service with no inconvenient emotions attached.
I tighten the valve, wipe the joint dry, and wait for another bead of water to form.
Behind me, Mrs. Halverson shifts in the doorway but does not leave.
“My nephew usually handles things like this,” she says, “but he’s been busy, and you’re just so handy.”
Just so handy.
My smile turns brittle.
“Happy to help.”
What I want to say is: I’m not doing you a favor. This is my business.
But I keep my mouth shut, because keeping accounts means keeping people comfortable. And keeping people comfortable means swallowing a lot of sentences.
The leak finally slows, then stops.
I sit back on my heels and wipe my sleeve across my forehead.
“Temporary fix for now,” I say. “The vanity base needs to dry out, and I’ll send you an estimate for replacing the damaged panel.”
Mrs. Halverson’s face tightens at the word estimate.
“Oh,” she says. “Right. Of course. Could you maybe just text me a rough number? Nothing official yet.”
My favorite kind of professional relationship. The kind where I am skilled enough to call during a crisis but not quite legitimate enough to send paperwork.
I should be firm. Tell her that my time is important and needs to be treated as such.
Instead, I say, “Sure."
I gather my tools, tuck the damp towel into a trash bag, and stand.
Mrs. Halverson smiles. “You’re a lifesaver, Bethany.”
I nod.
Lifesaver.
Handy.
Sweet of me.
None of that sounds like a business owner.
None of it sounds professional.
I need to be someone with hours and rates and a calendar that does not exist around everyone else’s emergencies.
By the time I get to my car, my jeans are damp at the knees, my hair has mostly escaped its ponytail, and my phone has two new texts.
One from the owner of the duplex on Ridge asking if I can “just swing by” tomorrow.
One about Lestor Lodge. At least I know Grant will pay me a fair amount to do the work.
I toss my tool bag into the back seat, close the door with my hip, and draw one long breath.
I have the urge to sit there and ignore everyone, but I push that aside.
Then I drive to Hockey House.
***
"You're destroying the vibe," Jonah says.
I nudge the video game controller two inches to the left.
I look at the couch, the wrappers, the sweatpants, and the ancient protein bar I have just unearthed between two cushions.
“The vibe died hours ago,” I say. “I’m arranging the remains.”
Under the joking is the familiar low hum: if I vanished right now, the mess would quietly regrow.
Someone else might eventually clean it, but no one would miss the exact way I do it.
I smile through it, because saying that out loud would make this a feelings problem, and feelings are not in today's budget.
Timothy, meanwhile, has started stacking cans into the recycling.
His sleeves are pushed up. There is nothing objectively interesting about a forearm holding a soda can.
And yet.
The door opens and the team photographer, Anne, strides in with a camera bag.
"Don't move. I need the picture to feel lived in and real."
I look around the room.
She has certainly come to the right place.
My brain starts doing the math. How do I look? The answer is not flattering. Escaped ponytail. Damp knees. Hoodie with a faint smear of something from beneath Mrs. Halverson’s sink.
And a stranger’s sock in my hand.
None of this needs to be preserved for future generations.
Anne lifts the camera and I angle my body sideways on instinct.
"Don't mind me," she says.
Easy for the person behind the camera to say.
"This is my good side," Jonah says, pivoting like he's auditioning for a shampoo commercial.
"You don't have a good side," Shane says. "You have a best available side."
Jonah grabs a controller and hoists it overhead in a frozen celebration pose.
I try to drift toward the doorway.
Anne swings the lens my way before I clear the exit.
“This is great,” Anne says. “Very natural.”
I am holding a sock behind my thigh and calculating the distance to the nearest exit.
Natural may be overstating things.
Being ignored while I work is one problem.
Being watched while I work is an entirely different animal, and I do not like either one.
Across the room, Timothy notices me shifting under the attention. Something in his face resets.
Then he asks the room a question about the correct way to celebrate a goal, and instantly every player is shouting.
Anne's camera swings toward the noise. Just like that, I'm not the subject anymore.
After the noise dies down, Anne drifts toward the fireplace. She photographs the old signed photo on the mantle. The worn arm of the couch. The doorway framed in afternoon light.
Then she lowers the camera and begins scrolling through what she captured.
Against all odds, she may actually make this place look good.
I am halfway through the doorway when Anne turns the camera around and silently holds the screen toward me.
The photograph shows Timothy in the middle of a laugh.
The other players are celebrating behind him, blurred by motion, but Timothy is not looking at them.
He is looking at me.
His expression is open in a way I have never seen directed at me before.
Warm.
Unprotected.
Unmistakably fond.
Across the room, Timothy is still arguing with Jonah about celebration etiquette.
Either he has no idea what Anne captured, or he is exceptionally good at pretending.
Anne looks at me.
"Funny," she says. "How people look when they think no one's watching."
I have no comeback.