Page 30 of Somewhere Without You
With a shaky hand, I reached for the mug, not bothering to wipe away the flour on my face, and poured hot water over the instant coffee. The steam rose in a slow spiral, filling the kitchen with the familiar, comforting scent. It didn’t fix anything, but for a moment, itwasenough to make mefeelhuman again.
Warm sunlight poured through the window, casting a soft halo of light over Gran’s urn where it rested on the coffee table.
“I’m going to fix this,” I whispered, a small spark of hope, stirring in my chest.“The house, myself, everything.”
It wouldn’t be easy, but Iwasready.Andfor the first time in a long time, Iactuallybelieved it.
One hour of intensescrubbing later and the kitchenwasfinallyclean. After dealing with the flour mess, I spent fifteen minutes battling years of stubborn grease on the oven, ten more tossing out spoiled food, and a solid half hour cleaning out the fridge. The last fivewerededicatedto wiping down the counters.
My arms ached, my back protested, but overall, Iwasproud of myself for this small victory.Unfortunately, the same couldn’t be said for myself. Sweat clung to my skin, gluing my hair to my powdery face. Grease stains marred my robe, andtherewasan oddsmellcoming from somewhere I couldn’t identify.
I’dalready emptied the trash and double-checked the fridge for anything moldy.
That’s when it hit me. Iwasthesmell.
It shouldn’t have been a shock. Ihadn’tbotheredto shower last night, and after thirty-six hours cooped up in a car with only brief rest-stop bathroom breaks, itwasboundto catch up to me.
My hairwasa mess, and a prickling sensation crawled across my skin, like a thousand tiny spiders dancing beneath the surface.
I needed a shower.
The thought of hot water rushing over mefeltlike heaven. I shot back upstairs, grabbing a pair of faded jeans and a loose cotton shirt,thenpadded down the hall to the bathroom.
Setting my clothes aside, I placed my hands on both sides of the porcelain sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Eventhrough my floury mask, my facewasnoticeablythinner, not by much but enough to make a difference. My cheeks held a brighter pink, and my once faded freckles now danced vibrantly over the bridge of my nose.
Ilooked. . . like myself. The me before Jackson. Ithadbeen so long sinceI’dseenher, butI’drecognize her anywhere.
Taking a deep breath, I pulled back the shower curtain and twisted the knob, eager tofeelthe warmth of water against my skin. A pathetic whisper of a trickle emerged from the faucet,barelyenough to wet my fingertips, let alone my entire body.
“Shit,”I groaned, my voice tight with frustration. I faced the sink again, flooded with disappointment when I realized thiswasclearlymore than a faulty fixture.
Sighing, I realizedI’dhave to brave the basement. Gran kept a junk bin in the linen closet, and Ireluctantlygrabbed a flashlight before making my way back downstairs.
The basement door creaked open, revealing a steep staircasethatseemedto drop into darkness. The uneven, dirt floor stretched out beneath me. I swallowed hard, my heart thudding with dread.
Somewhere, something clanged. My stomach lurched. I gripped the flashlight tighter.SuddenlyIwaseight years old again, Kat and I daring each other to brave the dark.
“You’re a grown-ass woman,”I told myself.“You can do this.”
The wooden steps groaned under my weight. My heart pounded in my chest. Another clang rang out from somewhere unseen, and I jumped,nearlytripping on the last step. Dust swirled in the beam of the flashlight, casting long, eerie shadows across the jagged stone walls. I swallowed, licking my lips as I forced myself further into this dreaded hell.
Thesmellhit methen—a mixture of damp earth and mildew, followed by the unmistakable sound of something dripping. I swept the flashlight across the exposed pipes, their rust-eaten surfaces catching the weak light. Nothinglookedbroken, but how the hell would Iknow?
The dripping grew louder, feeding my irrational fear.Icouldcall a plumber—Ishouldcall a plumber, but in my stubbornness, Iwasdeterminedto figure this out myself, to prove Icouldhandle it.
My flashlight landed on a dark puddle in the corner near the furnace, revealing a watery mess snaking its way across the dirt floor. The dripwascoming from above, where a loose bolt held two pipes together.
Simple enough,I thought.
Across the basement, a rusty toolbox sat on a shelf, half-hidden by cobwebs. Its red paintwaspeeling like sunburned skin, and the metal hingeswereso old theylookedready to disintegrate.
Inside, buried beneath random tools and scattered screws, I found a small wrench. Gripping ittightly, I braced myself against the pipe, the cold metal biting into my palm.
With the wrench in hand, I reached up to tighten the bolt. Alowgroan echoed from the wall, followed by a sickening crack.Then, with no warning, the pipe exploded.
A geyser of water shot through the broken pipe, soaking me from head to toe. I staggered backward.
Through the freezing spray, my numb fingers fumbled along the wall until I found the valve. I twisted and yanked, but the ancient wheel refused to budge. Desperation clawed at me as I wrestled with it. Finally, with a sharp twist, the water stopped.
