Chapter 37 – Mindy
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The terrible, brilliant plan
Mindy
“Holy hell, that’s cold,” I squeak, stepping into my shower on Wednesday morning. Aunt Lorraine is picking me up soon, and we’ll be making the hour-long drive down to Galveston for Thanksgiving.
That is, if I survive this icy-as-fuck shower. It’s like I’m being pelted by sleet, so I smear soap all over my most important parts and rinse as quickly as I can.
My body is shivering and covered in goosebumps when I step out onto the cheap bathmat I purchased when I moved in. Drying off as fast as possible, I dress in a sweatsuit, socks, and tennis shoes. I’m still cold as I make my way down two flights of stairs to Apollo’s first-floor apartment.
He answers after several minutes of knocking, and dear god in heaven, he’s shirtless. Squinting to minimize the vision of all that, I say, “Hey, I think something’s wrong with my hot water heater.”
Apollo very helpfully rolls his eyes. “Are you sure?”
“Well, seeing as though I waited fifteen minutes for the water to heat up and it was still like being dumped off the Titanic and into the icy ocean, yeah. I’m pretty sure.”
He grunts. “I’m going out of town, but I’ll work on it when I get back Saturday morning.”
“Okay, I’m leaving too, returning on Saturday afternoon.”
“M’kay,” he says, closing the door in my face.
“Cool talk, bro,” I mutter at his door.
“I sure do like Erica and Phil,” Aunt Lorraine says, turning down my block on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. “It was sweet of them to invite me for the holiday.”
“They are good folks,” I agree.
We arrived at their house on Wednesday and helped Erica with the food prep. They’d graciously offered to let me and my aunt stay in their guest room. We ate our weight in delicious food on Thursday and vegged in front of the TV with leftovers as we watched football on Friday.
This morning, we left Brayden and Phil in front of the television and Aunt Lorraine, Erica, Caroline, and I had done a little Christmas shopping on The Strand.
“Are you sure this place is safe?” my aunt asks, peering up at my rundown apartment building as she parks in front.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “And my lease will be up at the end of December. I’ve been looking at different apartments.”
Her face is the picture of concern. “You know you can stay with me, right?”
“I do, and I appreciate it, but with traffic, it would add almost an hour to my commute.” I reach over and hug her. “Thank you for the offer, but I’ll be out of here soon.”
I don’t mention that I’m still paranoid about money, so I’m not sure any other place I rent will be much better. Last week I’d paid my attorney what I owed her, so at least my divorce is back on track.
“Don’t forget your bags of crafting stuff,” she reminds me when I hop out and retrieve my overnight bag.
“Got ‘em,” I say, taking the two sacks stuffed with fabric, glue, paint, and all kinds of other goodies Erica gave me after cleaning out her craft room. While we were out shopping today, I found some black Christmas ornaments on the clearance rack that I planned to use for my grumpy boss’s tree inside his office.
I’d pretty much forgotten about the broken hot water heater, and as soon as I got into my apartment on the third floor, I started working on the plain ornaments with some of the crafting supplies.
When I get in the shower Sunday morning, I’m abruptly reminded of the water situation. “Dammit, Apollo,” I grumble, re-dressing and heading downstairs.
After knocking for five solid minutes and getting no response, the little old lady across the hall opens her door and scowls at me. “Who’s making all that racket?”
“Hi, Mrs. Goldman. I’m trying to get Apollo to answer. He was supposed to have my hot water heater fixed yesterday.”
She releases a little hmph-ing sound. “Apollo isn’t home. He decided to stay a couple extra days in Dallas with his son. Good luck getting that lazy SOB to actually fix anything.”
“Great,” I say through gritted teeth, headed resignedly up the stairs to my crappy apartment.
I decide to take what Caroline calls a “whore bath,” standing in front of the sink and washing all the essential areas with soap and cold water.
But I really need to wash my hair before work tomorrow.
It’s been in a messy bun for two days and looks like someone plopped a mass of greasy yarn on top of my head.
My mind works through the possibilities.
If I had a working car, I could drive to Aunt Lorraine’s and use her shower, but since I haven’t gotten Mom’s vehicle fixed yet, that’s a no-go.
And an Uber would cost a fortune to her house.
I guess I could suck it up and attempt to give myself frostbite in my own stupid shower. Can hair get frostbite?
And then an idea hits me, a terrible but brilliant one as images of copper fixtures and mixed brown tiles fills my brain. My boss has a perfectly good shower in his office, and I’m sure it has excellent water pressure. And best of all? Glorious, beautiful, steamy, hot water.
I can get there before he arrives at work, shower, and get ready for my day. I’m sure it will just be for tomorrow, and then Apollo will get my hot water heater fixed.
Apollo does not, in fact, get my hot water heater fixed.
And that’s how I find myself inside my boss’s office bathroom again for the third straight day.
I feel like I have this down to a routine now.
I take the bus to the bakery, and when I’m done, I walk down to the Hale building, arriving by 6:30, which gives me plenty of time to shower, dry my hair, and put on my makeup.
I even bring my own towels, washcloths, and toiletries in my duffel bag, wiping down the shower once I’m done to hide the evidence.
Dipping my head back into the spray to rinse away the conditioner, I revel in the heat of the water cascading down my body.
Apollo returned from Dallas last night, and he promised to get to my water heater today.
I’m kinda going to miss this roomy shower with its outstanding water pressure, though I’ve been nervous as hell sneaking into my boss’s private bathroom every morning this week.
But luckily I’ve hidden it well, and Remington Hale is none the wiser.