Page 31 of Time for Change

“Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, kinda.”

“What’s wrong?” he asks. The noise in the background slowly fades away, and I can picture him moving from the bar area to one of the private back offices.

“I’m sorry to call so late,” I say, feeling a little guilty.

“It’s fine. We’re getting ready to close the bar. You’re not bothering me.” There’s a gentleness in his voice that causes a bubble of emotion to swell in my throat.

“I, um, well, I have a water leak in my kitchen. I called the landlord because there was water all over my floor, but he’s not available to come help fix it until tomorrow sometime, and I can’t find a shut-off valve. I thought about calling a plumber—”

“Help is on the way,” he interrupts.

“No, you’re busy at the bar. I was just wondering if you knew of someone—”

“I do,” he reassures me. “I’ll send someone to help you, okay?”

For the first time since I discovered the leak, I feel a sense of relief. “Oh. Okay,” I mumble.

“I have your address in your employee file. Help is coming, Stevie.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, trying not to let the gratefulness and support get the best of me.

I hear him talking to someone briefly, but it’s muffled, like his hand is over the phone. “I’ve got two owners here. One will be on the way in a minute.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. We’ve got your back, Stevie. Never feel bad for asking for help when you need it.”

I nod, my throat so tight, the words won’t come.

“Sit tight. He’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

“Thank you,” I reply once more.

“You’re welcome. Call if you need anything else, you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll let you go.”

“Night,” I murmur, hanging up the phone as I drop onto my couch in relief.

Help is coming. I just have to hang on a few more minutes.

To pass the time, I replace the smaller bowl with a larger one and go dump it in the tub. I open cabinets and search for any sign of a valve to shut off the water, to no avail. I do find one in the bathroom, but I’m not strong enough to turn it. The valve looks older than me and slightly rusty. Just as I head back to the kitchen, a knock sounds on the door. It’s a hard, yet short blow that causes me to jump. I look through the peephole and suck in a sharp breath. There, on the other side of the door, is Jameson.

With my heart pounding in my chest, I release the locks and tentatively open the door.

“Hey,” he says, hands shoved in the pockets of his beat-up leather coat. His eyes instantly look around me, as if he’s scanning the room before he enters.

“Hi. Thanks for coming,” I tell him, stepping back so he can come inside. “I feel terrible for pulling you away from work.”

“It’s fine.” He takes a large step in, the sound of his heavy boots thumping against the worn carpeted floor. “Kitchen?”

“Y-yeah,” I stammer, closing the door behind him. While my back is to him—something I don’t usually do but need to try to compose myself a little more—I take a few deep, calming breaths.

When I hear cabinets opening in the kitchen, I spin around and join him. “I looked for the shut-off valve but couldn’tfind one. There is one in the bathroom, but not here. I tried to turn it, but couldn’t get it to budge.”

“I’m sure it’s just for the bathroom sink and won’t affect the kitchen. Chances are the main valve for the entire apartment is in the basement. These units were built cheaply, and while they’re up to code for the most part, I’m guessing no one wanted the extra expense of having individual shut offs in each apartment.”

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