Chapter 2 – Bad News at Home

By the time I’m in the alley behind the club, I’ve already ripped off my heels and shoved them in my bag. The pavement is wet from the rain, slick enough that I nearly slip twice on the way to my car. My adrenaline is buzzing in all the wrong ways now.

The drive home is a blur of red lights and windshield wipers squealing against the glass. My landlord’s half-finished warning loops in my head like a broken record. The water—what? Overflowed? Burst? Turned my kitchen into a swimming pool?

I try calling him back twice, but both times it goes straight to voicemail. I don’t even know why I’m so impatient. It’s not like I can magically fix whatever disaster is waiting for me.

The rain gets heavier as I pull onto my street, the kind of steady downpour that makes the air smell like wet asphalt. My headlights sweep over the front of my apartment building, and my stomach drops. There’s water—actual, glistening water—spilling down the concrete steps that lead to my front door.

I throw the car into park and run up, my bag thumping against my hip. The door to my unit is already unlocked, and when I push it open, a wave of damp, moldy-smelling air hits me so hard I gag.

The sound comes next—a low, steady trickle, like someone left a faucet running somewhere.

“Hello?” I call out, because apparently I think the flood might answer me.

The living room floor is a soggy nightmare. The cheap rug I bought last year is soaked through, darkened to an ugly, mottled brown. I step inside, and my bare foot sinks into the carpet with a squelch that makes me cringe.

“Oh, God.”

The water seems to be coming from the kitchen. I pick my way through the mess, my sequined skirt catching the dim light from the streetlamps outside. Every step feels heavier, like my feet are suctioning to the ground.

When I reach the kitchen doorway, I see it—the source of the disaster. A steady stream of water is pouring from a crack in the ceiling right above the counter, pooling across the floor before seeping into the living room. The drip-drip-drip is loud enough that I can barely hear myself curse under my breath.

There’s a man crouched near the sink, fiddling with the shut-off valve. My landlord, Mr. Weaver. He’s wearing a raincoat that’s somehow wetter inside than out, his thinning hair plastered to his forehead.

“About time,” he says, glancing up. “Where’ve you been?”

“Working,” I snap, then instantly regret the sharpness. “What happened?”

“Pipe burst upstairs. Been raining for days, and the building’s older than dirt. The water found its way down here.” He twists something under the sink, and the stream from the ceiling slows but doesn’t stop. “Main valve’s shot. Need a plumber.”

I stare at the water inching toward my couch. “Can’t you just… fix it?”

He gives me a look like I’ve asked him to invent a time machine. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow, either. Earliest I can get someone in is Monday.”

It’s Thursday night.

My voice comes out tighter than I mean it to. “So what am I supposed to do until then?”

“Best thing is to clear out for a while.” He straightens up, wincing as his knees crack. “You stay here, you’re gonna be sleeping in a swamp.”

I glance around. My plants are drooping like they’ve given up on life. The blanket on the couch is soaked. Even my bookshelf—my one indulgence—has a bottom row of novels now curling at the edges. I feel something twist in my chest.

“And how long are we talking?”

“Couple weeks at least. They’ll have to fix the pipe, patch the ceiling, maybe replace flooring. Could be longer if there’s mold.”

Weeks. I let the word settle, heavy and wet in my stomach.

“I can’t afford to just… go stay in a hotel for weeks,” I say, panic creeping into my voice.

Mr. Weaver scratches his head. “Family? Friends?”

The truth is, I’ve kept most people at arm’s length for years. Easier that way. The people I do hang around with work the same late hours I do, and they’re not exactly the ‘crash-on-my-couch-for-two-weeks’ type.

I think about Marissa, one of the other dancers. Her place is tiny, and she’s got a boyfriend who already gives me the side-eye like I’m about to seduce her just by breathing near her. Not happening.

“There’s gotta be someone,” he says, already pulling his raincoat tighter like he’s halfway out the door.

I swallow hard. “I’ll… figure it out.”

“Good. I’ll lock up behind me. Don’t stay too long—you’ll just track water everywhere.”

He leaves, his boots squelching across my soaked carpet.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the slow drip from the ceiling. The sound is hypnotic in the worst way. It’s like every drop is counting down the seconds I have left to figure my life out.

I finally wade through to my bedroom. Miraculously, it’s mostly dry, though the smell of damp is already creeping in. I grab a duffel from the closet and start tossing clothes into it—jeans, leggings, oversized sweatshirts. I don’t even think about outfits; I’m just shoving whatever I can grab.

Halfway through, I remember my work bag. I find it under the vanity, thankfully untouched by the water. At least my makeup kit survived. Small mercies.

When I turn back toward the bed, I catch sight of the picture frame on my nightstand. It’s me and my grandmother, taken years ago, both of us laughing so hard our eyes are nearly closed. I shove it into the bag without thinking.

The rain outside pounds harder against the windows. My duffel is almost full when my phone buzzes in my back pocket. I pull it out, expecting another missed call from the landlord.

It’s not him.

It’s a message from Marissa:

Heard about your place. Need somewhere to crash? I might know a guy.

My eyebrows shoot up. That sounds like the kind of thing that ends with either a great story or a horror movie.

I type back: Who?

She replies almost instantly: My cousin. He’s… not exactly friendly, but he’s got a spare room.

Not exactly friendly? That’s putting it mildly if we’re talking about the guy I’m picturing. I’ve met her cousin once, briefly, at a barbecue. Big, broad-shouldered, the kind of scowl that makes you wonder if he’s thinking about tax fraud or murder. And if I remember right, he had a kid clinging to his leg the whole time.

I hesitate, then type: Is he going to hate this idea?

Marissa: Probably. But he owes me.

I let out a short laugh that sounds more like a sigh. “Perfect.”

I glance around the room one last time. This isn’t the first place I’ve had to leave in a hurry, but it feels different this time. Like I’m walking away from something I didn’t even realize I’d gotten attached to until now.

I zip up the duffel and sling it over my shoulder. The weight makes me tilt slightly to the side, but I keep moving.

When I step back into the living room, the water is already creeping further across the carpet, swallowing up the coffee table legs. I mutter a curse and step carefully to avoid soaking my socks any more than they already are.

Outside, the rain is cold and sharp against my skin. I toss the bag into the back seat of my car and climb in, the leather sticking to my damp thighs. For a moment, I just sit there, the sound of the rain drumming on the roof filling the silence.

I scroll back to Marissa’s last message, my finger hovering over the keyboard.

Fine, I type. Give me the address.

She sends it immediately, along with: Don’t let him scare you.

I start the car, the wipers squealing to life. My headlights catch the steady stream of water still flowing down the apartment steps. My place is officially unlivable, and I have nowhere else to go.

I put the car in drive, glancing at the address on my phone again. The name attached to it makes my chest tighten.

Liam Carter.

And I can already hear the grumpy tone in my head when he opens the door and sees me standing there.