Page 67 of We Can't Be Friends

“Not busy enough for you. What’s up?”

“How does renter’s insurance work? Who do I call about a flood? How do I get water out of my carpet?” I ramble off every single question that is flooding my brain. Quickly and so hastily that he probably didn’t catch a single one.

“Slow down, Chloe,” he says in a calming voice. “Take a deep breath.” I do, deeply, holding my inhale a few seconds before releasing it. “Where are you?”

I close my eyes, grounding myself—into the puddle at my feet—with another inhale and deep exhale.

“My apartment. I just got back to my apartment, a-a-and it’s flooded. There is standing water in the living room and kitchen.”

“When did you leave your apartment?”

“After work.” I check the time. “I took Tucker on a walk an hour ago?”

“No, that wouldn’t have changed anything.” He reassures me, and it feels like a part of the weight has been lifted off my chest. “There could be a leak in your or your neighbor’s apartment causing the flood. Do you see anything coming from the ceilings or walls?”

“Um.” I look up, not seeing anything on the ceiling. “I haven’t moved past the kitchen.”

“Chloe, you need to go look around your apartment.”

I walk around the place, but I don’t necessarily see anything. “I can’t tell. Maybe—” I open the bathroom door. “Oh.”

It isn’t the rain, but the problem I’ve been battling with my landlord to fix for months permanently.

“Freckles?”

“You know how my shower decides when it wants to work? It decided to work.” There’s water coming from the ceiling, a hole that is big enough to see the underside of my upstairs neighbor’s floor.

“That would be it. Take pictures and videos of everything and call your landlord. I wouldn’t stay in your room because it might worsen. Is your guest bedroom available?”

“No. Water is everywhere.” I panic.

“Take a breath, freckles.” I do. “Another.” I listen. “You’ll need to find a place to stay for the night.”

“Okay. What about my stuff?”

“Take pictures,” he says again. “If anything is near the ground, I’d put it on the counters or tables. Not any big pieces of furniture—”

“But what if it gets ruined?” Out of the bathroom, I’m staring at my brother’s piano. Honey wood now a caramel color at the bottom.

“Freckles, some of it probably already is. This is why you have insurance.” He chuckles; it’s deep and warm, familiar and safe. I miss him.

“Okay. Move anything else that I can. Anything else?”

“Breathe. It’s okay. This happens.”

“I’m trying,” I tell him.

“Go take the pictures and call your landlord. Keep me updated.”

“I will. Thanks, Dad.”

“It’s what I’m here for. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We get off the phone, and I start following his instructions. I snap pictures of dark spots on the wall, the hole in my ceiling, and the floor in each other area. I also take videos and photos of the bottom of my furniture, where it’s in sitting water.

I call my landlord. The line rings and rings, but he doesn’t answer.

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