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I cringe, hoping he didn’t wake Oakley and Jerry. I grab my boots and slide them back on, then wade out to greet him. He already has his crew making their way in, carrying equipment and dressed in waterproof suits.
“Having a bad night, huh?” the foreman asks.
I nod, but my brain is rioting against that thought. In theory, it’s been terrible, but in actuality, it’s been amazing.
Oakley and I kissed. It was…beyond words. Deeper than anything I’ve ever known.
The crew gets to work and Sebastian and I help where we can.
I never had to do much physical labor growing up, but football taught me discipline, so I’m glad to grab a hose here and push a long-handled squeegee there.
Thoughts of Oakley infiltrating my head while we work, I learn that the protocol is simple. Suck up as much water as we can now, all while making sure whatever was leaking has stabilized, and then the company will come back tomorrow and assess the damage.
Simple, yes. Backbreaking? A little.
The foreman speaks up after a long while. “We got a pretty good idea of what caused the burst. There was a rupture in the water line behind the kitchen sink. Our guys are about finished replacing it.”
I rest my arms on the handle of the broom and see that my brother is finally starting to look tired. “There’s not much more we can do here tonight, Sebastian. Why don’t you go home?” My carpet isn’t dry, but at least the standing water is all gone.
Right after he leaves, the foreman comes back to tell me they’ve turned the water back on. “So far, things look good, but keep an eye out for any more leaking. We’ll be back tomorrow to assess the damage to the structure of the home and to start replacing the dry wall.”
He flattens his mustache down with his hand and eyes the loft above us. “You better call your homeowner’s insurance to get things started with them. And you’re going to probably want to leave the premises or stay up there, if you can,” he says, and my stomach both soars and lurches at the same time. “The less walking on this carpet, the better,” he says.
By the time we’ve finished for the night and the crew has gone, I have still-wet carpet and the smell of water in the air.
It’s past four in the morning and I’m dead on my feet. I grab a change of clothes, a few toiletries, and a pillow and, per the expert’s order, I trudge up the stairs. The fans downstairs are so loud it’s like I’m in a wind tunnel and all of my senses feel sluggish.
It’s hard to make out Oakley in the dark, but she seems to be asleep. I take a shower as quietly as I can, and allow myself a second to pop the lid off her bodywash and take a whiff. Cherry and something else I can’t name. Regardless of what it is, I shiver. Carefully, I close the lid, wash my hair with my own shampoo, and finish the shower.
As I step into the room, Jerry chooses this moment to whimper. I carry him down the stairs and out into the summer night to do his business and then head back up.
Once back upstairs, I hesitate by Oakley’s bedside. She’s curled into a ball, bent in two at the waist, her thighs flush against her middle. Her breathing is rhythmical. If I can just carefully slide into the bed, maybe I won’t wake her.
The mattress squeaks against the bedframe and I freeze. Oakley sighs, rubs her cheek with the back of her hand, and straightens out, turning away from me.
I continue on and settle as far away from her as I can, careful not to touch her. It’s not easy, not the least of which is because my dream woman is in the bed with me. But also, it’s a normal-sized double bed, not King sized like I’m used to.
She shudders and gives a soft moan in her sleep. The shudder reminds me of earlier, of right before we kissed. I forcibly shift my brain to something else. I need sleep. My thoughts filter through old football plays. I think of the routes and directions, remembering the booming voice of Coach Beckett, my high school coach.
Huh. Is it strange that my mind goes there instead of my last coach from the Wolves? Why does Coach Beckett have more hold upon my brain than all my college coaches and professional coaches?
Maybe it has something to do with the bits and pieces of uncomfortable truth that Oakley’s said here and there about the reality of being on staff for an NFL team. Or maybe it has something to do with thoughts of my college coaches being tied to thoughts of Callie.
Maybe it’s because of the way my high school coach coached us. Like he truly cared. Like he wanted more for us than football. Like he was more interested in helping us become men of integrity than good football players.
And have I done that? Am I a man of integrity?
I think of my depression of the last year…of the last few years, really. It’s not like being depressed after Callie died has taken away my integrity. It’s not that. But it has taken something from me.
For the first time, I recognize it and I want it back.
Oakley shudders again, this time turning to me. Her eyes still closed, she presses herself nearer to me. I hold my breath.
She snakes a hand across my arm, up and down once before settling on my hand. “I should have come down to help,” she whispers, sleep slurring her words. “Jerry,” she says, her fingers stretching across my wrist.
It’s a gentle tether, an anchor. And for the first time since I stepped in water tonight, I’m able to relax. My breathing steadies.
“I’m sure Jerry needed you,” I whisper. I brush my lips across her forehead.
