Camila
If you avoid your spouse,this marriage thing isn’t that bad.
I don’t know why people complain about it so much.
I easily survived the weekend living with my husband by staying in my bedroom. I know I can’t avoid Hess the entire six months of living together, but for our first awkward weekend, it seemed like the best plan. Easing into this living arrangement is key. That’s why I’m glad it’s Monday, and I have a long week of work ahead of me. I’ll barely be home, making this marriage arrangement even easier.
I hang a towel on the hook next to the shower door and stretch my toe into the water, checking the temperature. The perfect amount of warm.
My head tilts back under the spray, fingers working shampoo into my hair when, without warning, the water scalds like liquid fire pouring straight onto my skin—a huge change from what I had before.
I scream, stumbling back out of the flow, fumbling with the knobs, frantically twisting them both directions, but the temperature has gone wild.
The pipes groan, the water sputters, and then—crack!A jet of water bursts from the once-solid wall, spraying the entire bathroom like a busted fire hydrant.
I shriek again, half hop, half fall out of the shower. Shampoo stings my eyes as I grab the nearest towel. I press it against the spraying pipe, but the stream shoots sideways, soaking the mirror, the counter, the floor,everything.
“Camila?” Hess’s voice booms from the other side of the door, followed by pounding. “Are you alright? There’s water coming under the door.”
“The shower!” I yell, water smacking against my face.
The handle rattles. “Let me in!”
The lock clicks, and it’s clear I have one second to get myself decent before Hess will be in here. I forgo trying to hold my towel over the spraying pipe and drape the soaking fabric around my body as Hess bursts in, ironically also wearing nothing but a towel slung low around his hips. His chest is damp, and his hair drips like he was showering too.
He swears when he sees the geyser exploding from the newly split wall.
“I already turned it off!” I shout over the spray.
“Then why is there so much water?” He leaps forward, spinning the shower knobs.
I slip, trying to back out of his way, yelling as my feet go out from under me. He grabs for me at the same time, but momentum takes us both down in a loud, wet crash. We hit the tile, water pelting us from every angle.
I’m sprawled across him, towel barely hanging on as I grasp his slick shoulders. His hand clamps around my waist to steady me, his other braced against the tile.
“Get off me!” I push against his body.
“You’re the one on top of me!”
We fumble like slapstick clowns, arms tangling, hands slipping on the wet tile, both shouting instructions at each other while water blasts our faces. My knee digs into his side, and his shoulder slams against mine. It’s as if this body entanglement is a puzzle neither of us is smart enough to solve.
He wipes at the water rolling into his eyes. “Could you just get off me so I can turn off the water?”
“I told you I already turned it off!”
“And I’m telling you it’snotoff!”
He shifts me off him like I’ve been as light as a feather this whole time. “Main water line,” he mutters, hauling himself up. He darts out the door, towel barely hanging on.
I scramble to my feet, glancing down in horror at the puddle of water spread across the bathroom tile.
The pipes groan, then the spray sputters to a stop.
Silence.
I stand there, panting, drenched, clutching my towel in place.
Hess reappears, dripping wet. He wipes a hand over his face, water rolling down his chest. “Pressure surge.” He points at the mangled pipe. “When I turned on my shower, it blew the line.”
