14. Repairs and Measurements
Repairs and Measurements
Falon
Iwake up to the sound of someone else in my kitchen.
It takes a moment to shake off sleep. My brain scrambles, flickering at the edge of awareness. Bo’s chuckle and Rowdy’s eager barks echo upstairs. I inhale coffee. The house feels alive and welcoming. This is my new normal, I tell myself as I blink awake.
Rowdy’s nails click across the hardwood as Bo makes coffee. The coffee grinder rumbles low. The cabinet doors creak, despite my efforts to fix them. Then a soft thud as Bo sets a mug on the counter.
I lie there for a moment, just listening.
Six weeks ago, the house was annoyingly quiet in the mornings.
I turned on the radio just to fill the emptiness.
Now, the heavenly scent of coffee greets me from downstairs, Rowdy’s paws click on the kitchen floor, and Bo’s soft murmur is threaded with affection, as if they share secrets only they understand.
It’s adorable. Not that I’d ever, ever confess that to Bo or anyone else.
I like it. The realization surprises me. I was worried it would be chaos, but now I listen for their noise.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Falon. Hope is dangerous. It’s not smart to let it start rooting itself in my chest, because hope never works out for me.
I roll out of bed, grab my phone, and it's six o’clock. The sun’s still hiding behind the mountains, reluctant to wake up. I shuffle to the bathroom, pull my hair into a messy bun, and my slippers scuff along the floor. My tank top and shorts are askew. All in all, I’m a mess.
In the bathroom, my heel sinks into a soft spot by the sink. Something’s wrong. I shift and crack; the vinyl gives way. I knew I should have fixed that.
Suddenly, my right foot shoots straight through the floor as the surface collapses under me.
I lurch forward; my hands grasp for the sink as my right leg plunges to the knee through the jagged hole. Dust rises from the break, and my shin scrapes hard against the wood. My left leg bends awkwardly, and I let out a sound somewhere between a screech owl and a yell.
Just as I stop yelling, I hear clattering from downstairs, followed by a bark and Bo calling my name.
“Falon?”
I hear his footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Rowdy appears in the doorway with Bo half a step behind him, both wearing nearly the same shocked expression.
Rowdy approaches me slowly, tail low, while Bo pauses, his eyes scanning the scene.
Bo has a dish towel over his shoulder and a coffee mug in his hand.
He assesses the situation, sets the mug on the hallway shelf, and crosses the bathroom in two steps.
“Are you okay?” He speaks to me like I’m seven.
“Mm-hmm.” I nod, not trusting my voice.
“I’m going to get you out, but for now, don’t move,” he says. His voice is low, steady, the kind that doesn’t ask.
“Nope, wasn’t planning on it.” My voice is weak, though I try to hide that I’m shaken.
Bo tests the surrounding wood first, then plants his feet on a solid section of floor near the door, crouches down, and gets his hands around my waist. “With your other leg, can you push up?”
I nod, and as he pulls, I push. The wood groans, straining under our effort.
When I’m upright, both feet on the floor, Bo’s hands are still firm at my waist, and my breath stutters, raw and ragged.
My heart slams against my chest, and I’m on the edge of tears.
Bo rests his forehead against mine and pulls me into a hug.
“Shh,” he consoles me. I nod into his shoulder, then step back. My shin stings, along with my pride. We step out of the bathroom, and I slide down the wall until I’m sitting. My shin looks angry.
Rowdy sniffs the hole behind us.
“Don’t even think about it,” Bo tells him. Rowdy wags his tail and retreats one inch. He’s so deeply unconvincing. I could almost see the wheels turning in his little head.
Bo looks down at my leg and crouches in front of me, his hands carefully lifting my calf, turning my leg slightly toward the light from the window.
“You’ve got a good scrape and a few splinters,” he says, furrowing his eyebrows. “Do you have a first aid kit?”
“It’s in the hall closet. Second shelf, near the back.”
I stare at the hole. I knew it was soft, I even poked it and put it on my list. But I didn’t know how to fix it. I made promises, but now I have a hole. So much for promises.
My mind spirals, cost, repair, all the things I can’t control, but I shove it down. I can’t afford panic now. One thing at a time, Falon. Right now, that means admitting I need help, even if it kills my pride.
Bo comes back with the first-aid kit and crouches in front of me. “This might sting,” he says, and opens the kit. He takes out a few things and lays them out next to my leg.
“I’ve had worse,” I say.
He looks up. “You’ve had a floor fall in on you before?”
“There was an incident in basic training. I won’t go into details, but the tower is now stronger than it was.” He’s trying to diffuse the tension with humor, and it’s working.
He looks back at my leg, something warm moving through his expression. He’s got the tweezers out, and my eyes widen. He places his hand on the back of my calf, and almost all my wits take a back seat. When he finds the first splinter, I feel the pinch, and my breath is taken fast.
“Sorry.” His voice drops to a rumble.
“It’s okay.” I squirm a bit, then watch him work. “Thank you. For all of this.”
He glances up, just for a second. His hand shifts on the back of my calf, and something in that small adjustment makes my heart pitter a little quicker.
He finds the second splinter. I wince. His grip tightens, just slightly, when I flinch.
“Sorry,” he says again.
“You keep apologizing.”
“You keep wincing.”
“Sorry.”
“And who’s apologizing now?” Bo huffs and shakes his head.
That almost-smile. The corner of his mouth, there and gone.
He sets the tweezers aside, grabs the antiseptic, and I stare at the ceiling while he cleans the scrape.
Our situation is a little odd, to say the least. He is living in the guest house, but most of his time is spent with me on the ranch or renovating the house. It’s like almost living with someone.
We’ve traded glances, a few lingering touches when handing over coffee or tools, but always with careful distance. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want more. With Bo holding my calf and the way he helped me, I could almost believe he wants more too.
His thumb moves in a slow pass over the back of my calf, clearing debris, and every coherent thought I just had evaporates into thin air.
I look back down.
He’s looking up at me. He knows. The slight shift in his expression tells me he’s completely aware that my attention was on his touch, and the fact that he finds this even a little bit amusing is evident in the very small, very self-satisfied curve of his mouth. I playfully narrow my eyes at him.
“Almost done,” he says, nonchalantly. His voice is warm and low.
He finishes with the bandage and helps me up. We’re still quite close, and I can see him thinking behind his hazel eyes.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yes, better, thanks.” I mock bow in the small space. “My liege.” I laugh and push at his chest. He stumbles back, and the two of us turn to look at the hole in the floor. “Now what?”
Bo looks at the hole in the floor, places his hands on his hips, studying it. Rowdy has pressed himself against Bo’s leg and is staring at the hole, too.
“At least it’s the sink and not the tub,” Bo says. “The rot’s radiating out from the base of the vanity.”
“There’s probably a slow leak in the supply line.” I test the edge of the damage with my toe. “If I pull this back, I’ll be able to see it.”
Bo gives me a look. “You, have you replaced a subfloor before?”
“No. Have you?”
He crouches and presses his palm flat against the subfloor a few inches from the damage. “The wood’s damp, but the joist feels okay. This might not be as bad as it looks.”
“Or it’s worse.”
“Or it’s worse,” he agrees. He stands and looks at me. “And to answer your last question, yes. I helped Anthony do a subfloor once, before I enlisted. I remember most of it.”
“Most of it.”
“Enough of it.” A pause. “You have YouTube?”
Which is how we end up twenty minutes later, sitting on the hallway floor outside the bathroom, my laptop balanced on my knees, Bo sitting close enough that I can hear him breathe.
He leans forward to zoom in on something on screen, and I lose the thread of whatever the man in Ohio is explaining about subfloors.
Rowdy is draped across Bo’s feet, his chin on the floor, glancing up at us every so often.
“Back to that part,” I say, pointing at the screen.
The Ohio man repeats what he said, and we continue.
“Okay,” Bo says. His voice rumbles low near my ear. “Let’s pull the vinyl, cut out the damaged section, fix the leak, sister the joists if they need it, lay the new subfloor, and screw it down.”
“How long?”
“Half a day if we’re lucky. Full day if the joists are worse than they look.”
I look at the hole, fold my arms, and square my shoulders.
“I’ll get dressed and pull the tools,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll start clearing the vanity.”
I change into work shorts and a t-shirt and lace up my boots, then head out to the garage for the tools. This was not on my agenda for today. I had planned to fix the horse corral and pull the hay down for the week.
We find the leak exactly where Bo expected. A worn supply line fitting under the sink. Bo tightens the fitting, and we both watch for a minute to confirm it’s fixed. It holds.
“Looks like that was the culprit,” he says.
“Looks like it. It was so small, but it left a big mess.” I crouch to look at the subfloor edge; my leg protests the angle. I push through.
Bo notices and grimaces. “How’s the leg?”
“I’m ignoring it.” But just the fact that he noticed makes my heart start to sway.
“Thank you,” I say. “For not making me feel like an idiot about the floor.”