Page 9 of Loco

“Evening, Sayla!” Mrs. Hendricks, the seventy-something matriarch of Magnolia Road, called out as I wrestled a weightybox of tools from my car. “Saw your old friend Roque this morning. He was fixing his mailbox.”

I grunted, setting the box down on my porch with a dramatic thud. “Fascinating.”

“He’s such a handsome young man, isn’t he?” she continued, squinting toward his house like a birdwatcher scouting an especially rare species of smugness. “And strong. You know, he offered to carry my groceries in yesterday. Such a helpful neighbor.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d detach. “Mm-hmm.”

Mrs. Hendricks leaned in conspiratorially, like she was about to share the secret to immortality. “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to ask him for help with that house of yours.”

I forced a tight-lipped smile. “I can handle it myself.”

That was a lie, but no way was I letting Roque, of all people, be the one to swoop in and save me.

Determined to prove my independence (and avoid all neighborly interactions), I decided to install my own shelves in the kitchen. I’d found some reclaimed wood planks online for a steal and had the stuff to attach them to the wall, so how hard could it be?

Two hours, three YouTube tutorials, and a questionable amount of cursing later, I stood back to admire my work. Perfect. Well, it was a little uneven, but the character was a thing, right?

I turned to grab my phone for a victory picture just as the entire damn shelf crashed to the ground, sending screws, brackets, and my carefully curated selection of cookbooks tumbling in an avalanche of failure.

A slow clap echoed from the front door. I knew that clap and could already feel the smugness from the person doing it.

I didn’t turn around. “Don’t say a word.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Roque said, voice dripping with amusement.

Gritting my teeth, I grabbed a hammer and started scooping up screws like I hadn’t just humiliated myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be off harassing someone else?”

He strolled inside like he owned the place, hands in his pockets, eyes too entertained. “Nope. It’s my night off.” He nodded toward the wreckage. “Looks like I picked the perfect time.”

I straightened, clutching a screwdriver like it was a weapon. “I’ve got this under control.”

Roque tilted his head, considering me like I was some particularly amusing wildlife documentary. “Really? Because it looks like the shelf won.”

I inhaled deeply, fighting the urge to throw something at his stupid, conceited face. “I do not need your help.”

“Sayla.” His tone was way too patient. “Just let me?—”

“Nope.” I spun toward the back door, shoving the screwdriver into my pocket. “I need a break.”

And by break, I meant escape.

That escape led me straight to the home improvement store, where I wandered the aisles in search of the next DIY project that wouldn’t end in tragedy. I had a list of things I wanted to change, but money was tight, so I focused on the cheapest fixesfirst. It was like playing renovation bingo—except I was losing spectacularly.

And then I turned the corner and saw it.

The Holy Grail of unnecessary but absolutely necessary purchases. It wasn’t on my list and definitely wasn’t a priority, but it was affordable, which meant it qualified as a responsible adult decision. And best of all? It was something I could install without any risk of Roque showing up and slow-clapping my dignity into dust. YouTube was the Bible of how to fit this stuff. I’d have it done within thirty minutes.

I queued up a video to listen to on the way home so that I understood the verbal instructions before I watched the visual ones and headed home to make it my bitch.

Or so I thought.

Roque

Through the window, I could see exactly what she was doing. Sayla, standing on her tiptoes, was attempting to attach a light fixture with the kind of determination usually reserved for brain surgery. Wires dangled, tools clattered, and she had the expression of someone who definitely should have read the instructions first.

So, naturally, I ran around to her breaker box to make sure she hadn’t forgotten to turn off the electricity. Because while she might have a death wish, I wasn’t about to stand by and let her fry herself like an unfortunate toaster pastry.

Thankfully, the previous owners had labeled each breaker clearly. And, even more thankfully, the one she was working onwas already off. This is a small miracle, considering I had the distinct feeling she was winging it.

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