“Half a day if we’re lucky. Full day if the joists are worse than they look.”
I look at the hole, fold my arms, and square my shoulders.
“I’ll get dressed and pull the tools,” I say.
He nods. “I’ll start clearing the vanity.”
I change into work shorts and a t-shirt and lace up my boots, then head out to the garage for the tools. This was not on my agenda for today. I had planned to fix the horse corral and pull the hay down for the week.
We find the leak exactly where Bo expected. A worn supply line fitting under the sink. Bo tightens the fitting, and we both watch for a minute to confirm it’s fixed. It holds.
“Looks like that was the culprit,” he says.
“Looks like it. It was so small, but it left a big mess.” I crouch to look at the subfloor edge; my leg protests the angle. I push through.
Bo notices and grimaces. “How’s the leg?”
“I’m ignoring it.” But just the fact that he noticed makes my heart start to sway.
“Thank you,” I say. “For not making me feel like an idiot about the floor.”
He looks at me. “You’re not an idiot. This floor was a time bomb. No one could have known when it was going to go.”
“I know, but I knew it was soft.”
“You had seventeen other things to worry about. You work part-time.”
“Worked. I worked part-time. I got let go three days ago. Tommy needed me full-time, and I couldn’t, so he hired Dunkin.”
“Ah, but you still take care of your ranch, your dad’s, and you’re restoring one of the oldest houses in Everwood. I’ve seen your list.” He picks up the pry bar. “Nobody gets to all of it.”
We pull the vinyl in strips, which is satisfying, as removing something ugly always is. Underneath is the rest of the damage. Pine boards darkened with age and moisture,soft in a radius around the vanity. Bo presses the edges and calls out which sections need to go. I mark them with chalk.
Then he hands me the measuring tape.
“Can you measure four feet from the wall?” he says.
I take the tape, walk it out, and flip it so the numbers face away from him.
“Four feet,” I announce.
He squints at the tape. “I can’t read that.”
“I can read it.”
“Falon.”
“It says four feet. I’m telling you it says four feet.”
He gives me a look that is trying very hard to be stern and not quite getting there. “Turn the tape around.”
“I don’t see why that’s necessary.”
“Because I need to verify?—”
“I’m the one holding it. I’m verifying on your behalf.”
He reaches for the tape. I pull it back. He reaches again, and I step sideways, and then somehow we’re both holding it, laughing, and he gets it turned around and reads it himself with exaggerated focus.
