RIP, bunnies. You deserved better.
The plumber—Bob, according to his coveralls—arrives eighteen minutes later, his weathered face impassive as he wades through my flooded living room.
“This is bad,” is his only comment delivered in his monotone voice, as he walks in and out the house checking pipes and finally heads for the bathroom.
I hover anxiously, trying to stay on drier patches of floor as he works, muttering to himself and occasionally letting out a low whistle that doesn't inspire confidence.
“So? What's the verdict?” I finally ask when I can't stand the suspense anymore.
Bob emerges from under the sink, his gloves covered in something I don't want to identify. “Fatberg,” he pronounces, like he's naming a disease.
“A what now?” I choke out.
“Fatberg” he repeats. “Buildup of grease, oil, and other stuff in the pipes. Congealed like concrete. Backing up the whole system.” He wipes his hands on a rag. “This line connects to the property across the road. That's where most of it comes from.”
A hot surge of anger replaces the cold dread in my veins. “You're telling me someone else caused this?”
“Yep. Someone's been pouring oil down their drain. Lots of it, too.”
He starts packing up his tools. “I've stopped the immediate backup, but the whole line needs to be cleared professionally. Place won't be habitable for at least a couple of weeks, depending on how soon you can get the flooring replaced.”
“Couple of weeks?” I echo, my voice rising several octaves.
“But I have nowhere else to go!” I squeak out.
Bob shrugs, the universal silent gesture for 'that sounds like ayouproblem.'
“You could take it up with the neighbors. Their mess, technically.”
I narrow my eyes, glaring through the front window at the house across the road—thesprawling, smug, dry-as-a-boneranch-style mansion that looks like it was handpicked for a luxury magazine spread titled“Rustic But Rich.”It's got a wide wraparound porch, black railings and two rocking chairs on the porch, like it’s auditioning for a sweet tea commercial, and not a single drop of standing water in sight.
“Ohhh, I willBob, don’t you worry.” My left eye start twitching excessively.
A very concerned look crosses Bob’s features.
“I’ll take it up with them alright…” I say, sounding positively unhinged.
Bob opens his mouth to say something—probably something helpful or reasonable—but I raise a finger like a feral librarian and snap, “Not now, Bob. I’m going in full suburban vengeance.” I declare as I storm out the door, my soaked slippers making the kind of obscene squelching sounds that would get censored on daytime TV. My silk pajama bottoms cling to my legs with the humidity, like they've given up on life, my short robe flapping behind me with each determined step and my hair—looks like I’ve lost a fight with a leaf blower, but I don’t care one iota, as I march up the drive like a woman on a mission, seeking justice.
I'm fueled by righteous indignation and a particular brand of fury that only comes from having your temporary sanctuary destroyed by someone else's negligence.
Stomping up the pristine porch steps, leaving a trail of wet footprints on their perfectly stained wood, I jab my finger on the doorbell, with perhaps more force than necessary. I hear it chime inside, loud and smug, and now—I’m committed.
Preparing my most scathing speech, I shift my weight from one soggy foot to the other. Just as I'm about to jab my finger into the doorbell again, the door swings open.
And there he stands.
None other thanGrant Freaking Taylor.
Of fucking course.
He's wearing low-slung sweatpants and nothing else, his bare chest still glistening with water droplets as if he just stepped outof the shower. His dark brown hair is still wet, curling slightly at the nape of his neck, and a towel hangs around his neck. The sight momentarily short-circuits my brain, anger giving way to something far more complicated.
“Mia?” He blinks rapidly in surprise.
His eyes drag over me, surprise melting into that insufferable half-smile.
“This is…unexpected.”
