Page 34 of Stranded for Christmas with my Boss

“You’re welcome,” I tell her before hanging up and grabbing my tool kit from under the sink, moving quickly so that I can get her door fixed by at least two in the morning.

Even after I fix it, I’ll still offer her the day off, but I doubt she’ll take it.

I see a text with her address waiting for me on my phone’s lock screen. She’s not too far away from me, but she’s definitely in a different area. Judging from all the things she admitted to me about her finances and her parents’ situation, I can assume that she’s in a small studio in one of those older buildings in an even older neighborhood.

Kind of like the neighborhood I grew up in.

I push those thoughts from my mind and head out to my car, stepping into the chilly night. There are still cars zipping by and people trudging up and down the sidewalk, but it’s far quieter than usual.

I drive to her apartment building, passing by other old, brick buildings with small entrances and limited street parking. I end up having to park down the street from her place, but a walk through the cold doesn’t bother me.

Using the directions she gave me, I enter the three-story building and take the nearest flight of stairs that I can find up to the top floor, keeping my steps quiet as they lightly echo through the building. As I walk down the hallway, I can hear faint voices and laughter from other units, but other than that, it’s eerily quiet.

When I reach Unit 305, I gently knock on the door so that I don’t startle her. Anything more than a gentle knock is going to sound like I’m pounding on her door.

Alyssa cracks the door open and peers through the tiny gap. She throws the door open with a sigh of relief. “Oh, it’s you. Thank you for helping me out. Seriously.”

I smile and walk inside, my eyes briefly sweeping over, as I guessed, a studio apartment. It’s far homier than my place, though, showing off little bits of her personality.

Colorful curtains. A few books stacked on her coffee table. A whiteboard calendar and to-do list mounted on the wall near her kitchen. A framed picture of her family in the living room.

“It’s not much,” Alyssa says when she sees me looking around.

“I like it,” I assure her. “Way more cozy than my place.”

Amusement glints in her eyes as she crosses her arms over the oversized graphic sweatshirt that she’s wearing over leggings. And fuzzy socks. “I know you can afford an accent piece or two.”

“I guess I just don’t know where to start,” I say with a light laugh before taking a look at her door. “I have an idea where to start here, though. Is it just now giving you trouble?”

“It’s always been finicky, but this entire place is old,” Alyssa sighs as she watches me inspect the door hinges, the doorknob, and the doorframe.

She’s right about it being old. The doorknob’s gold-colored surface is chipped and scraped, and the white door itself has a few big marks and gouges on it. And it’s cheaply made.

“All right, I’m going to mess around with a few things,” I tell her as I crouch down and open up my tool kit. I might as well start with tightening the hinges. It looks like they need that regardless.

“I just got back from my parents’ house, so I’m starving. Want to share a pizza with me? It’s the least I can do.”

I look over my shoulder at her, seeing a hopeful expression on her face. I can tell she feels guilty for dragging me out here, even if it’s no big deal to me.

“That sounds great,” I say, watching her face brighten.

“Pepperoni?” Alyssa asks as she steps back toward her kitchen.

“Perfect.”

While she calls the closest pizza place for a late-night delivery, I work on the door, moving through my list of why it won’t close and stay closed.

“So, how do you know all this handyman stuff?” Alyssa asks as she holds a bottle of beer out to me.

I lift an eyebrow, surprised but grateful for the offering. “My dad. I had to help him fix things around the house when I was young.”

Alyssa leans against the wall as she sips on her beer, keeping me company. “What are your parents like?”

“That’s a very loaded question.” I find myself laughing, but there is no amusement in my voice. All I can think about is the worst of my parents, which clouds any good memories I have growing up.

“Oh…have they passed?”

They might as well have. It’s not like I talk to them anymore.

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