One More Chapter (River Valley Teacher’s Lounge #4)
1. Penelope
one
penelope
They say that when it rains it pours, but they never quite prepare you for the onslaught of that deluge.
Specifically when it’s coming from the walls of your house.
I wish it would have happened at a more opportune time—like, you know, not at four in the morning. But you never can quite decide when your life is going to fall apart. I guess it would have been too much to ask for it to not happen while I was fast asleep.
Still, the steady dripping against my cheek didn’t exactly rouse me right away. In my dreamy stupor, I initially assumed it was my roommate, Claire’s, new puppy. Bilbo had spent a few nights with us when he wasn’t over at his dad’s— my friggen boss’s —house. That little pup can slobber. So, instead of waking immediately, I just assumed it was the dog, and I rolled over.
Face down into a puddle in the middle of my mattress.
That certainly popped the bubble on my dreamland.
By the time I realized that the pipes between my bedroom and the en suite bathroom had burst, setting off a chain reaction throughout the entire upstairs portion of my home, it was too late.
And I was a very wet mess.
Not in the fun way either.
That thought makes me chuckle through my chattering teeth. Despite the month of July on the calendar, the fact that I’d been soaked before I could wake has me standing on my front lawn waiting for the fire department to finish with their inspection in my sleep shorts and a ratty old T-shirt from high school.
Of course, I’m alone.
Because Claire and Bilbo didn’t stay over last night—she and Harding— Nathan , I can call him Nathan now—were painting their new place, and she just decided to spend the night with her beau.
The rest of my friends are married with kids or merging onto that highway. At thirty-three, I didn’t exactly foresee myself being alone, let alone standing alone, dripping wet on my own front lawn as part of my teacher-on-summer-vacation itinerary.
Then again, things have never really gone my way. The roller coaster in my life looks less like your predictable loop-de-loops that eventually pull into the station, and more like the one in Disney World that dead ends at ripped up tracks and then launches you backwards at an upwards-shooting ninety-degree-angle.
My mom gets pregnant at twenty-one? My dad leaves us, homeless and penniless.
Mom finally gets on her feet, and we have a place to call our own? Welcome baby brother Connor to the picture.
I bust my ass to get myself through college, pay it off, get myself a stable teaching career, and kickoff a successful—albeit secret—author career that has me sitting on a nest egg larger than I ever could have imagined?
Well. I guess I was due.
A handsome, sweat-stained firefighter exits my front door, not bothering to shake out the water from his boots as they squish over the small patch of grass for him to reach me. The slowly rising sun paints the sky behind him in Neapolitan colors. If I wasn’t currently awaiting the status of my home, I’d pull out my phone to take a photo as book inspiration.
“Sorry about your home, Ms. Barker,” he says with a sympathetic shake of his head.
I shrug, arms still crossed. “Hey. Shit happens.” We both laugh without humor, and I ask, “So, what’s the damage?”
He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his brow before he answers.
“Your pipes were corroded, likely before you bought the place. You’ll probably need to replace a good chunk of the plumbing system.”
That would explain why the sale price was so low, and why they offered to wave the inspection fee if I signed sooner.
“Electrical is shot. We killed the power, but that will need to be gutted too.”
Strike two.
“You’re looking at a couple of months at least, and that’s just the guts. You’ll probably need to rip her down to the studs. You’ve got good insurance, yeah?”
Batter’s out!
At least hanging out with Juliet and Lucy at the middle school baseball games has paid off somewhere.
I paste on a tight-lipped smile, willing my crossed arms to hold it all together for me.
“Yep.” I answer his question with a curt nod. “I’ll be giving them a call today. As soon as I…”
I gesture to my boat house with a flick of my wrist as if to say handle all of this . His sweet, sad smile finally has me releasing some of the pent up frustration.
Not sadness , though. I will not cry. I do not cry.
Tipping my head back, I run my hands over my face, up into my scalp, where my three day, unwashed red mane hangs behind me to my waist.
“It’ll be okay,” the gruff voice of the firefighter says as his hand squeezes my shoulder. When I tilt my head back up, icy blue eyes zero in on mine, and all of a sudden, the squeeze is a little less comforting and a little more friendly. The smile is a little less sympathy, and a little more, How can we make this sad go away, darlin’?
Once upon a time, I would have taken him up on his offer.
Once upon a time, I would have called sex with this stranger a pay day— book research .
But I can’t do it.
Not after the last time.
Not after him .
This is exactly how I always end up breaking my own heart in the first place. But not anymore.
“You got a girl at home?” I ask. Immediately his hand pulls back like he has been scorched. In the early morning light, I can make out the tan line left behind by a wedding band.
They all do. They always do .
For some reason, I seem to have a stamp on my forehead that attracts men who are already committed and want to make me the woman on the side.
He clears his throat, and the rest of his squad starts to trickle from my front door like clowns out of a Volkswagen beetle.
“Power’s shut off, as is the water. Off-limits rooms are sealed. One of us can walk you through for essentials.”
“Noted,” I say, giving him a two-finger salute, telling the fireman of grandpa age that I’ll be a few minutes, before I walk to the fence around my back yard, turn my back to the chaos, and exhale.
Luckily, my phone was spared from the waterfall in my bedroom, and I had the foresight to grab it on the way out.
It’s five in the morning in the middle of the summer. Thumbing through the list of people I’ve carefully curated over the years, the bow around my heart cinches.
Juliet and Sam took their kids to a bee-themed theme park in Georgia. Can’t call them .
Claire texted me around one that she and Nathan had just finished painting the new library. Scratched from the list .
Lucy and Aaron are in Disney World again. Nope .
My little brother Connor is on vacation with his dad’s family. Remember? Because his dad stuck around?
Which leaves me on my own to clean up the mess.
It’s no matter. It’s what I’ve done my whole life.
The downpour continues—as I sit on my front lawn watching the clean-up crew enter and exit my house in hazmat suits, my insurance informs me that, since the issue was preexisting, they won’t be able to cover the costs. Fate blows me a kiss when I hear the quoted repair costs. The number that will fix my house could be easily covered by the contract I have yet to sign with my publisher. The one I can’t sign yet, because I’ve been plagued by writer’s block for the past several months.
But, problems don’t solve themselves. Like I’ve done since day one, I stand, brush myself off, and make the best of it. I shoot Claire a text to call me when she wakes up, head to the closest Dunkin’ with my laptop in tow, and open the document labeled Story Idea Dump , hoping that I can make magic happen before I get too close again to drowning.