Page 7 of I Heart Mason Cartwright
It’sobvious the man in the orange apron is trying not to laugh at me. Only, he’s not very successful. His lips purse and his chest shakes as he listens to me tell him what happened. Which is crazy since hemusthear stories like mine all the time—home repairs gone awry—he works in the plumbing aisle at a hardware store for goodness’ sake.
I want to smack him across his chubby smirk-filled face with my new home improvement book that I’m getting to replace the waterlogged one at home. But this is my year to become responsible since I’m a homeowner now, and something tells me responsible people don’t hit one another over the head with three-inch-thick books.
“Okay.” He clears his throat, his mirth in check. “So, you were trying to repair a leaking kitchen faucet, and the water shutoff valve under the sink just kept spinning?”
I nod. I see from the handwriting on his apron that his name isBilland he specializes inplumbing. I’d introduce myself, but don’t see a need for us to be on a first-name basis.
Though, if I did, I’d introduce myself as Willow who specializes in being responsible. And I would tell him it’s not polite to laugh at another’s misfortune.
“And it was round? It didn’t look like this?” He holds up a silver almond-shaped knob thing. I return my attention to Bill.
“Yes, and it didn’t,” I say. “Because apparently nothing that is actually in my stupid new old house looks like the pictures in this damn book.”
“And that’s when the faucet flew off and hit you in the head?” Bill confirms.
“It didn’t just fly off; it was like a freakin’ missile with a water rocket chaser. I neededtwobandages!” I point to them on my forehead to enunciate my point. “And don’t forget the weird engine revving sound the pipes made when I tried the faucet. And how everything rattled.”
“Okay, well, that’s common in some of these older fixer-upper homes. Especially those built by the waterfront, where things rust much faster than inland homes do,” he says.
“What about the water being brown?” I ask. Because Iknowthat can’t be normal.
“That sounds like sedentary water, just needs to be flushed out. It should turn clear after running it a while. If not, you may have a hole in the pipes somewhere underground, maybe leaking mud into your supply line.”
Huh. Okay.
He keeps talking. “Okay, well this is a . . .”
I tune him out as he holds up the part I need to buy and then tells me how to install it. I know I should be listening to what he says, or else I’ll have questions later, or worse, more exploding house parts. But I don’t want to care about valves and levers and stuff. I just want to go home and get the water working again so I can shower somewhere other than the gym.
Now, I know that listening to him would only help me in fixing the problem, but it’s boring. Bill is boring. My mind just automatically wanders to things more interesting to me, like the olive green crossbody bag that woman in the return line has and where she bought it.
This illustrates my main problem in life. I don’t stay interested in anything for too long. I can’t. I gloss over what’s now, so I can get to what’s next. It’s why I figured tackling a large project like renovating an old house would be perfect since there is always something different to do. If I get bored, I can bounce around from repair to repair.
What I did not consider was how long each task might take to complete. And how some things, like a plumbing leak, can’t just be left incomplete.Andhave to be cleaned up. So far, everything outside of choosing a new front entry mat is super hard, takes knowledge I don’t have, and an insane amount of time to finish.
I rub the spot behind my left ear with my thumb. Then put the new levers and flex pipes from Bill in my cart next to the wet/dry vac he also told me to buy, and head to the next section to find a new faucet.
I video call my best friend, Zach, from the faucet aisle to get his opinion. He’s got a great eye for interior design.
“Yes, dear?” he answers, the camera remarkably close to his handsome face. So close in fact, I can see how perfect his skin is.
It’s like he has no pores. Just flawless, pore-less skin that radiates beauty. If he wasn’t my best friend, I would hate him. He’s almost too pretty for his own good. Stylized golden-brown hair, glasses that make him look both smart and handsome, a sculpted jawline, thick eyelashes. It’s like if you cross a young Brad Pitt with that super smart kid from Criminal Minds, you’d get Zach Thornton.
“Z, I need your help picking out a faucet.”
He rolls his big green eyes. “Of course you do. Show me.”
I turn the phone and show him the three that I’ve narrowed it down to.
“The middle one,” he says.
“Are you sure? I was thinking the one on the left.”
“Then why did you call me?”
“To make sure I was right.”
“You aren’t. Get the middle one, hire some hunky man to help you install it. We can make mai tais and watch him.”
