Chapter 2
Iclose the door, rushing to the kitchen and setting my messenger bag on the small sliver of counter before perching my cello on the too-small table. It takes me a minute to figure out which maintenance line is for emergencies, but the lady on the other end is nice enough about getting someone sent to me. She gives me an estimated wait time before hanging up. I shove the phone back into my pocket. I blow out a breath and look around my studio apartment.
The apartment that is now under four inches of standing water.
Muttering a string of curses that would have my mother red-faced, I cross the space, toeing the basket full of clothes in front of the TV stand I had planned to deal with after rehearsal today.
Correction: I toe the basket full of soaking wet clothes that are now too water-logged to do anything with until I can take them down to the building’s laundry room and dry them again.
I glare at the offending water pipe that’s broken in the ceiling, gushing enough water that the drywall has crumbled and fallen in large chunks to the floor. Before I can decide what to attempt to salvage first, there’s two quick, hard knocks on the door.
“Maintenance.” The voice is muffled, but the irritation is clear enough.
I cross the small space, opening the door before the person can knock again. The maintenance guy stands on my threshold, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn jeans, a scowl making his harsh cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass.
“The note says there’s water?—”
He cuts off with a rough curse as I open the door wide enough for him to see around me. Without another comment, he pulls his phone from his back pocket and dials someone, taking a single step into the apartment, grimacing as the water splashes over his tennis shoes.
“Yeah, it’s Nick. Unit 105 is flooded,” he says. There’s indistinct muttering from the other end of the call. “About four inches. Burst pipe in the shared wall.”
He hangs up a minute later without further comment and crosses the apartment to the locked utility closet tucked into the far corner. He raises an eyebrow as he moves my desk out of the way, unlocking the door and reaching in before I can manage to ask him anything.
“You got the mandatory renters insurance?” The man doesn’t look up from where he’s messing with something in the utility closet. The water slows to a dribble nearly immediately, the drips coming slower until they stop entirely.
When I offer a yes, he nods.
“I’d get them on the phone. You’re not going to be here for a while.”
With a resigned sigh, I open the closet door and pull down my suitcase, throwing in all the still untouched clothing stored under my bed, miraculously dry despite sitting in drawers touching the floor. Points to Ikea, I guess. The maintenance guy leaves while I’m collecting everything from the bathroom, muttering something about a shop-vac.
I send a text to Huntley while he’s gone. She calls me before I even manage to set the suitcase on the now-crowded two person table.
“Are you serious?” she asks the moment I pick up. When I offer a terse affirmative, she curses. “I’ll call around and see if anyone has a spare room right now. And you can crash at my place for tonight if you want.”
I run my hand through my hair, tipping my head back and looking at the ceiling, not seeing the small patterns in the textured drywall as I let my eyes relax and blur out.
“That’d be great,” I say.
“Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be there.”
She hangs up without any niceties, but that’s Huntley. And me. There’s just certain dynamics that happen when you’ve been friends for multiple years.
A notification flashes across the top of my phone, and I curse again.
Sorry, apartment problems. You down for postponing?
Totally fine. You good?
I smirk, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. We’ve been chatting for the last couple weeks after matching on a local queer dating app. It took all my courage to finally ask him out on Saturday, and I hate that I’m having to readjust the date already.
Should be fine, just needing to sort through insurance.
I tuck my phone away once he confirms we’re good to go for a couple nights from now. Putting my head down, I focus on getting together everything that can be salvaged, packing what I can into the suitcase and then moving on to the empty laundry basket tucked in the small closet. By some small cosmic fortune, the fridge is nearly empty, so there isn’t anything really to pack away for food, so I’m able to focus on my concert attire and electronics.
I’m just finishing packing out the TV stand when the maintenance guy returns, an impressively large shop-vac in tow. Just behind him is Huntley, her backpack slung over one shoulder, another hard-sided suitcase rolling beside her. She cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, picking up the suitcase and trading it for my packed one, opening it on the small table before I can even give a greeting.
“Thanks,” I mutter, filling the new bag with the rest of my nightstand and desk, doing my best to not scratch anything overly important without moving too slowly.
“Should have an update for you by the end of the week,” the man says, running an extension cord from the hallway rather than risking any of the outlets in the apartment. When I nod, he continues, “This is the worst I’ve seen, but Jack says it’ll be a few weeks. I’d plan for four and hope for three.”
“Sounds good,” I say. “Thank you.”
He nods and then flips on the vacuum, effectively drowning out any more conversation. Huntley grabs the suitcase and stages it beside my own while I stack the laundry basket of electronics on top of the wet clothes and then sling my cello over my shoulders again. The ten blocks to her place are going to be grueling, but I’m not about to complain about it.
“Want to dry those a bit first?” she asks once I’ve closed the door, cutting the sound of the vacuum in half. With a nod, I head deeper into the building instead of toward the street. Huntley’s phone goes off while I’m loading the clothes into one of the dryers, and she steps back into the hallway to answer it. I use the time to sort through my own phone, ignoring my brother again and confirming the new time for the date.
I’m folding the damp clothes when she comes back into the room. I cock an eyebrow when she bites her lip and messes with the belt loops of her jeans.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Someone has an open room for as long as you need it.”
Relief rushes through me.
“You’re not going to like it, though,” she says before I can say anything. I finish the folding and then readjust the baskets, prepping to carry everything to her place.
“I’ll take anything, Huntley. A member of the band is better than figuring out double rent for the next several weeks.”
Huntley laughs, though it feels desperate rather than exuberant.
“You might change your mind.” I shrug. She doesn’t hesitate, her voice dropping between us like a bomb. “It’s Rylan.”
“Fuck.”