Page 2 of Camp Help Falling

“That, I can definitely do.”

Chapter Two

Oliver

Bad things come in threes.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when, after being let go from my job and dumped by my girlfriend, I come home to ankle-deep water flooding my apartment.

Mr. Williams, the manager of the swanky condominiums I live in, stands outside my door with the couple that lives next door, all of them with worried expressions on their faces. When he spots me rounding the corner from the elevators, he jumps into action.

“Oliver! Just the guy we were waiting for!” I like Mr. Williams; he’s been a great landlord. But after learning who my parents are, he’s been a bit of a brown-noser. Always a little too quick to jump to my aid or offer to fix a problem. Today, his forced enthusiasm, mixed with the worry in his eyes, pushes me closer to the edge I’ve been teetering on since leaving the offices of Woolsey-Marshall Architecture.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Williams?” I glance over his shoulder at the Steeles, the older couple who live next door. Mr. Steele has his arm wrapped protectively around Mrs. Steele, who is clutching her teacup yorkie like she just had a near-death experience. I’ve never had any sort of problem with my neighbors—they’re a lovely, albeit slightly dramatic, couple—so their presence at my door leaves me scratching my head.

Metaphorically.

“Would you mind letting me into your apartment? The Steeles called me about a leak in their bathroom, but we can’t find the source of it. While I’m not hoping it’s coming from your place, it’s the next place we need to check. And if there’s any damage to your unit, we need to get that documented and…” He trails off as I raise my eyebrows. He lifts his hands and waves them in front of me. “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.” His voice is placating, which I’m sure is for Mrs. Steele’s benefit, but after the day I’ve had, I wish he would have just texted instead of waiting here for me. “But the leak is along a shared wall, and I just want to make sure everything is okay.”

For the record, everything is not okay.

I flip on the light, prompting a collective groan from me and Mr. Williams. The carpet in the living room is dark with water, the tile in the kitchen is submerged in at least an inch of it, and the distinct sound of spraying water comes from the hallway bathroom. The bathroom that shares a wall with the Steeles’ place.

Mr. Williams mumbles a string of curses I can’t repeat as he leans into my apartment, attempting to assess the severity of the situation from around my body, which is still obscuring the majority of the doorway.

Looking down at the water that’s beginning to leak over the threshold onto the hallway carpet, I say screw it. I step into my apartment, my shoes sinking into the flooded carpet, and take squelching steps over to the coffee table and set my small box of belongings down.

I didn’t go to work this morning expecting to come home with the contents of my desk in a cardboard box someone scrounged up from the supply room. I didn’t make a lunch reservation at my girlfriend’s favorite restaurant expecting to eat by myself with that same box as my plus-one. And I didn’t wear my lucky shoes expecting them to be ruined by a burst pipe.

With today’s events, I can’t really call them my lucky shoes anymore.

I cross into the kitchen lake and crouch down to find the water shut-off underneath the sink. Slowly, the sound of rushing water quiets from the vicinity of the bathroom, and Mr. Williams heaves a huge sigh from the hallway.

By the time I make my way back to my open front door, he already has his cellphone out, frantically shooting off texts and flipping between messaging apps, all while trying to herd the Steeles back into their apartment.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Evans. I didn’t realize it would be this bad.” The sudden seriousness of the situation has him addressing me by my last name, a jarring switch from his casual hello only a few minutes ago. “ I need to check on the tenants downstairs, but do you have somewhere you can stay tonight?” He looks up from his phone, worry etched on his face. “I’m sure if you talked with your insurance, they would cover a hotel.”

His phone buzzes again, and his attention moves away from me. “It could be up to a few weeks to get everything cleaned up and fixed, depending on when I can get the plumbers and repairmen in here.”

I glance back at my ruined apartment, but somehow find a smile for Mr. Williams. The man looks stressed enough that his hair might spontaneously start falling out. “No worries, Mr. Williams. I can crash at my parents’ place until you get everything sorted here. Let me grab some of my things and then I’ll leave you with unrestricted access to the whole apartment. You have my number if anything else comes up.”

My landlord nods, already pressing his phone to his ear as I turn back to my water-logged space. I slosh my way to my bedroom, the water unavoidable and my shoes already soaked. The carpet in my room is slightly less damp, but it still squishes underfoot as I find a mostly dry duffle bag in my closet and fill it with clothes. Next is my hanging garment bag and a selection of my usual workwear. Not that I’ll be needing slacks and button-downs to wear to work in the immediate future, but I don’t know how long the repairs and restoration of my apartment will take, and I hope to have a new job before then.

Mr. Williams thanks me and apologizes again as I step back into the hallway. I don’t envy his job in the next few weeks, but I’m just grateful I have somewhere else to go. It’s already going to be enough of a hassle getting my insurance involved. This could have been way more of an inconvenience than it is.

I wait until I get to the parking garage before calling Mom. The door to my parents’ home is always open, as my mother likes to remind me every time we’re on the phone, but it never hurts to give them a little warning. When Mom’s phone goes to voicemail, I try Dad. When his phone also goes to voicemail, I start driving. I did my due diligence. They can be surprised, then.

In less than twenty minutes, I’m pulling onto the spare parking pad at my parents’ home. Even when my parents aren’t home, there’s usually someone at the house—the housekeeper or one of their personal assistants—but the house is completely dark aside from the timered exterior lights. When no one answers the door, I have to use my spare key to get in.

My hellos are met with nothing but an echo through the large house. The house feels cold and empty, void of its usual warmth and welcome, and I flip on lights as I go to help banish some of the creepy feeling of walking through such a large and obviously empty house.

I plop onto one of the couches in the formal living room—one I wouldn’t plop onto unless I was sure my mom wouldn’t find out—and finally reach down to peel off my soggy shoes. I switch on a small side table lamp and sigh as I lean back against the couch and close my eyes.

My phone buzzes with an incoming call, and I grunt as I shift enough to pull it out of my pocket. I don’t recognize the number or the area code, but my phone doesn’t automatically list it as a spam call. I hesitate for a few rings before answering.

“Hey sweetie, how’s it going?”

It’s my mom’s voice, but not her number.

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