One hit.Clang.
Two.Crack.
Three—then the faucet breaks clean off, and a burst of water explodes in my face, soaking my shirt, spraying across the bathroom like a goddamn fire hydrant.
“Shit!”
I scramble back, slipping slightly on the wet tile, lunging toward the pipes to try and stop the flow. Water is everywhere, pooling, dripping down into the vent that leads straight to the kitchen.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I leap up, tear out of the bathroom, and bolt downstairs, nearly eating shit on the soaked floor. I skid into the kitchen and drop to my knees, yanking open the cabinet beneath the sink and frantically twisting the shut-off valve.
The pipes groan. The water slows.
Then, finally—mercifully—it stops.
I sit back on my heels, drenched, breathing hard, the house silent except for the distant drip of water making its way down from the bathroom.
I run a hand through my wet hair and let out a bitter, breathless laugh.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect. One more thing to add to the list of things I haven’t quite figured out how to fix.
By four, it’s too late to go back to bed and too early to get ready for the day. Despite exhaustion creating a mental fog I can’t seem to shake, I get to work on the kitchen.
With the water shut off, I’m not in danger of anything leaking again. I hope.
I strip the old, bottom cabinets and properly seal the ancient pipes so I don’t risk another leak before theplumber can come out and modernize the plumbing. Once that’s complete, I work at forming the boxes for the new cabinetry. In an attempt to save money, I opted out of the pre-made ones and now I’m regretting having to tediously put together each one.
Halfway through the first one—because I’m still on the first one and it’s been over an hour—my mom calls.
Before answering, I check my watch, calculating the time in Monterrey. It’s two hours ahead but still early, even there. Ever since my dad died, a knot of dread coils in my chest whenever my mom or Adrian calls, like I’m on the verge of hearing the worst news of my life and tumbling into a black abyss.
Still, no matter the panic simmering beneath the surface, I always answer with an intentional lightness in my voice. My mom doesn’t need to worry about me; she doesn’t need to know I’m still deep in the trenches of grief. I lost my dad, but she lost the love of her life. A loss I understand, though in a different way.
“You’re up early,” I greet.
She blows out an exasperated breath. “It’s so hot here. Has it always been this hot?”
The tension in my spine immediately dissipates. She’s in a good mood and that’s good enough for me. “I don’t know ‘amá, you tell me. You’re the one who grew up there. You should be used to the heat, it’s hotter than hell in Phoenix most of the year, can’t be much hotter there.”
She laughs softly and the sound fills me with relief. She’s starting to come back into herself.
“Maybe I’ll cut the trip short, go back home.”
I’m predicting a phone call with Adrian soon. Neither of us wants her to go back to an empty house without family nearby. Adrian and his wife Celia live in Portland and now I’meven further than I was from her when I lived in L.A.. She shouldn’t be alone.
“I think my tía would be upset if you left early.”
She sighs, but I hear her agreement.
After my dad passed, my mom’s sister invited her to come stay in Mexico for an extended visit. It’s been good for her.
“How’s your shoulder?”
As if my body heard the question, a heated jolt radiates through the area—painful and nearly impossible to ignore. I shift slightly, wincing as I try to find a more comfortable position.
“Still hurts,” I admit, because there’s no sense in lying. “It’s worse in the mornings but gets better once I start moving.”
