Chapter 2 - Eli #2
The question catches me off guard. Most people don't ask things like that. Most people stick to safe topics—weather, town gossip, whether the hardware store has what they need.
"No," I say.
She glances at me. "Really?"
"Really."
"Huh." She goes back to looking out the window. "I think I would. Get lonely, I mean. I like people too much."
"I noticed."
"Is that why you live out here? Because you don't like people?"
"I live out here because it's quiet."
"Quiet's good," she says. "But so is noise sometimes. The right kind of noise, anyway."
I don't know what the right kind of noise is anymore.
There was a time when I did: laughter in a barracks, radio chatter, the sound of men I trusted at my back.
But that was before. Before the sand and the heat and the explosion that turned everything into screaming and smoke and the kind of silence that comes after, when you're counting bodies and realizing some of the numbers don't add up the way they're supposed to.
I push the thought down. Lock it away. It's easier out here, in the woods, where nothing asks me to remember.
"How long have you been in Blackwater Falls?" she asks.
"Six years."
"You like it?"
"It's fine."
"Just fine?"
"It's what I need," I say, and there's an edge to my voice that I don't mean to put there.
She hears it. Goes quiet for a second. Then she says, "I get that."
I glance at her. She's still petting Ridge, but there's something different in her expression now. Something that looks like understanding, and I don't know what to do with that.
"Frank said you're ex-military," she says.
Of course Frank said that. Frank's got a mouth like a town crier.
"Yeah."
"Thank you for your service," she says, but it doesn't sound like the usual script people read off when they find out. It sounds genuine. Quiet.
"Don't," I say.
"Don't what?"
"Don't thank me."
She looks at me for a long moment. "Okay."
And that's it. She doesn't push. Doesn't ask what I did or where I served or any of the other questions people usually ask when they're trying to figure out what's wrong with you.
She just lets it sit.
We pull up to her house a few minutes later. The old Porter place, sitting at the end of a long driveway, surrounded by trees and overgrown grass. It's a good house. Solid bones. Needs work, but it's got potential.
I kill the engine and sit there for a second, trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea.
"Okay," she says, opening the door. "Prepare yourself. It's bad."
Ridge jumps out after her and I follow, grabbing my toolbox from the bed of the truck.
The kitchen is exactly as bad as she said it would be.
There's water everywhere. Pooled on the counter, dripping onto the floor, spreading out in a slow, determined march toward the living room.
The cabinet under the sink is open, and I can see the problem immediately.
As expected, she overtightened the faucet assembly, cracked the seal, and now the whole thing is leaking like a sieve.
"I know," she says, seeing my expression. "I really thought I was doing it right."
I set the toolbox down and crouch in front of the sink, taking a closer look. It's not unfixable. It's just going to take some time.
"You got towels?" I ask.
"Yes. Lots. I've been using all of them."
"Get them."
She disappears and comes back a minute later with an armful of towels. I start mopping up the water under the sink, then reach in and shut off the water supply. The dripping slows, then stops.
"Okay," I say, sitting back on my heels. "You're going to need a new cartridge assembly. This one's shot."
"Of course it is," she says. "Because why would anything be easy?"
"You want easy, don't buy a house built in the eighties."
She laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen in a way that feels too big for the space. "Noted. So, what do I do?"
I walk her through it: what she needs, where to get it, how to install it without breaking anything else. She listens, asking questions that make sense and nodding when I explain the parts she doesn't know.
She's smart. I can see that. And she's not afraid to admit when she doesn't understand something, which is rarer than it should be.
"Think you can handle it?" I ask when I'm done.
"I think so," she says. "And if I can't, I know where you live now."
"Don't make that a habit."
"What, asking for help?"
"Showing up at my cabin."
She grins. "No promises."
I should tell her no. I should make it clear that this was a one-time thing, that I'm not the guy she calls when something goes wrong, that she needs to find someone else to be her small-town handyman.
But I don't.
I just pick up my toolbox and head for the door.
"Eli?"
I stop. Turn around.
She's standing in the middle of her disaster of a kitchen, hair falling out of the ponytail she tied it back in. And she's smiling.
"Thank you," she says. "Really."
I nod. Don't trust myself to say anything.
Ridge is already at the door, waiting. I let him out and follow, climbing back into the truck and starting the engine. As I'm backing out of the driveway, I see her in the rearview mirror. Still standing there. Still smiling.
And I know, I know that this isn't over.