Page 72 of Just One Little Bargain

“I’m sorry.” It comes out quiet and wretched. “You let me into your home, and I couldn’t even take a shower without causing property damage.”

She says nothing, and I start calculating whether I can survive sleeping in her yard.

“Oh, stop looking at me like that,” she mutters.

“Like what?”

“Like a kicked puppy.” She studies me long enough to make me squirm. “It’s just a shower curtain, Milo.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ve got three spares in the hall closet, because Marmalade has torn down every one I’ve ever owned. He hooks his claws into the fabric and hangs off it. I buy them in bulk.”

I’m embarrassingly relieved. “So you’re not angry?”

“I didn’t say that. We’re okay when my bathroom floor is dry.” She jerks her chin toward the hallway. “Mop’s by the washing machine.”

I nod quickly. “Right. Yes. On it.”

Everything is where she said it would be. I carry it back to the bathroom and start soaking up the water. When I glance up from a particularly stubborn puddle near the base of the toilet, Evie is leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, apparently reconsidering every decision that led to this moment.

“You’ve never mopped a floor before, have you?”

“What gave it away?”

“You’re pushing the water in circles. You have to wring the mop out between passes.”

“I am wringing it out.”

“You’re squeezing it once and calling it done. Here.” She hobbles forward and holds out her hand.

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“And you’re supposed to be cleaning, but instead you’re making a second flood. Give me the mop.”

“No. Sit down. I’ll figure it out.”

“Milo.”

“Evie.”

We stare at each other. She sighs, leans against the doorframe, and talks me through it instead. Wring harder. Start from the far wall. Work toward the door. Don’t step in the parts you already cleaned.

It takes longer than it should. She corrects me four times, and mutters something under her breath that I’m fairly sure translates to unbelievable. By the time the floor is dry and the mop is rinsed and propped against the wall, we’ve settled into a rhythm that wasn’t there before.

“Passable,” she says, inspecting the tile.

“Was that a compliment?”

“Don’t ruin it.” But the corner of her mouth twitches. “Come eat.”

She turns and limps back toward the kitchen, and I follow. As I sit, she slides a steaming plate of pasta toward me, covered in creamy sauce with chicken and vegetables.

After we finish eating, Evie leans back in her chair with a wince. She looks wiped.

“I’ll get the dishes.” I reach for her plate.

“You don’t have to—”