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My eyes drift to the door behind me, which I locked with purpose after I left Ben’s bed (with his permission and a grumpy, sleepy kiss that absolutely destroyed any hope of keeping this casual with the man). I also remembered to take the spare key with me this time. No more under-the-mat escapades.
Because as much as I refuse to let Ben know, he’s right. I need to be better about safety, locks, and making sure no one with ill intent can get to me. With my front lock now fixed, I’m planning to head to the store after work to try and figure out a fix for my apartment door, something I will be ripping on Ben for indefinitely.
I take out a headphone, pausing my music, and I hear it—loud thumping, like something is being dragged up the stairs.
What the . . .
My body jolts when I hear another loud thump followed by a voice.
A man’s voice.
Ben’s voice.
“Fuck!”
I pause, waiting. What the hell is he . . .
“Stupid fucking door.” And then I hear more dragging, moving away from the entrance of the bakery.
What is he doing?
I finish up scooping perfectly sized mounds of dough before setting the tray and dough aside, washing my hands, and heading for the back door.
When I step out into the hall and look up the stairs, Ben is standing at my apartment entrance.
With a new front door.
It looks like mine is already off the hinges, dragged down the stairs, and is leaning against the back door to his shop.
As I start up the stairs, I see he also has a drill in his hands, removing the old door hinges. To his left is a red tool box.
“What are you doing?” I ask, even though it’s clear exactly what he’s doing.
“Putting on your new door.”
“I . . . Why?”
“I broke your other one.” Fair enough.
“Why aren’t you sleeping?” I ask, glancing at the screen of my phone in my hand. It’s nearly seven thirty in the morning. He’s dressed, clearly went to a hardware store, took a door off, and got everything ready for this project.
“Broke your door. Needed to swap it out.”
“What?” He stands, looking at me, clearly annoyed.
“Jesus, babe, your door was broken. I’m the one who broke it. You’re getting a new one. Your lock was trash. I was planning on swapping it anyway. That chain does nothing; you need a deadbolt.” I blink at him. “I went to the store, got a better door, a better lock. Putting it on now.” I spit out the first thing that comes to mind.
If you were to ask me, it would have been something along the lines of “Why are you doing this so early?” or “What do you know about my lock?” But instead, I ask, “Do you know how to do that?” He stops lining the door in the frame to look down the stairs at me, frustration on his face. “Replace a door, I mean.” My dad was never one to fix things, rather he would hire someone or barter with someone or guilt someone into fixing whatever was broken. It’s just another reason why when I found the broken equipment and YouTubed through how to fix them myself, I was so impressed that I could do it. If you’ve never seen someone fix something with their own two hands, it seems impressive. Impossible, even.
He stares at me like I’m an idiot.
“I’m doing it right now, aren’t I?” I guess he’s not wrong. “I fixed your lock yesterday, didn’t I?” He did do that, spending a total of three minutes at my front door until the lock caught on its own.
“How do you know how to do that?”
“My dad owns a construction company, babe, remember? Well, my brother does now, I guess. It was supposed to be mine.”
“Supposed to be?” This seems like as good a time as any to get information out of the tight-lipped man.
