those medals mocking me whenever I looked in the bedroom mirror? Fortunately for me, Neil’s house was in an area that was conducive to running.
I planned on hitting one of the local races soon, but I wanted to get a little faster before I ventured that far. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself or besmirch my good name in the running community. Not that I was sure they would even remember me, so long had it been since I’d actually been to a race.
A harsh, unflattering glow flooded the bathroom when I flicked the light switch, granting me the most ungracious welcome as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I turned away quickly, deciding that merely washing the sweat off my face wouldn’t cut it.
I peeled off my clothes, throwing them into a damp heap in the corner. That was something else that had taken some getting used to—using someone else’s shower. Hotel showers are strange enough, simply because they aren’t yours. Someone else’s shower is strange because not only is it not yours, it’s someone else’s. It’s a very odd thing to pull back the curtain and see a half-empty bottle of men’s body wash and various shampoos that have been left behind.
When I’d gotten into the house, one of the first things I’d done was scrub the tub and shower walls with a very potent, very abrasive cleanser. It wasn’t quite strong enough to burn all of my nose hairs, but it was pretty close. Once the shower was sufficiently scrubbed and sparkling, I stocked it with my own shampoos and conditioners and body wash.
But I also put his back.
Somehow, I didn’t feel right totally displacing Neil’s things. This was still his house, and I was just a visitor here. Plus it kept me from feeling so alone. It’s amazing, isn’t it, the mind games you can play with yourself?
Once I’d showered, I wrapped up in one of the big, fluffy towels from the stack in the hall linen closet. I walked from the bathroom to the bedroom to find some clothes, thinking distractedly about how to blow up my poor excuse for a car.
Hmmmm. Wonder if any of Neil’s giant bullets would work? Or maybe he had some explosives somewhere in the house…
Probably he kept them in the same place that he’d stashed all the pictures of himself.
I found that terribly frustrating. Much as I hated having my picture taken myself, I should have given the guy a little more slack. But how in the world does somebody manage to not have a single picture of himself somewhere in his house?
Even I had a couple of snapshots that included my face floating somewhere in the sea of faces grouped together for a photo.
Even I, who was generally a reluctant party to any moment involving a camera that I wasn’t personally holding and controlling.
Squish.
I took another step further into the bedroom.
Squish.
What the?
I took more deliberate steps through the room, the carpet making squishing and sucking noises under my bare feet with each movement.
Okay, now I was getting really worried. I knew there was a water heater in a small closet-like space a few feet from the bed, and it seemed like the only logical explanation for all of this water.
Oh, dear God, don’t let it be the water heater, please don’t let it be the water heater, I prayed silently as I approached the door.
I knew, in all reality, that nothing would change between that particular second and the instant my fingers closed around the knob; but some small part of me was still hoping for a miracle.
A very small, very delusional part.
I opened the door and found an absolute mess in the small closet. I couldn’t tell exactly where it was coming from on the thing, but the water heater was definitely leaking.
Call me ignorant, but at that particular moment, I had no idea what to do. This wasn’t the kind of thing that was supposed to happen when you were staying in someone else’s house. This was the kind of thing that was only supposed to happen to people with their own houses, with husbands there to fix the damn thing. Or husbands there to act like they knew what the hell they were looking at and then call the plumber, claiming to be too busy to fix the damn thing themselves.
My mind was racing, my heart was going at a rate rapid enough to rival a hummingbird’s wings, and I wanted to throw up. Had I done something that made this thing burst or leak or whatever it was doing that it obviously wasn’t supposed to be doing?
I felt sick and guilty and panicked.
Neil was going to blame me.
I don’t know where the thought came from, but all of a sudden it was there. And, for only being a thought, it seemed as loud as if someone had shouted it into the room.
Neil was going to blame me.
Of course he would. I was the one here, watching his house, and I’d let this happen.
Granted, I hadn’t actually been present, but it had still happened on my watch. And I had absolutely no idea of what I should do.
I needed to call Ray. It seemed logical enough to me. At least he might know what to do, which was definitely a step up from standing there, staring at the thing like a helpless idiot. My feet were almost rooted to the floor, sunken into the spongy carpet, which seemed to have absorbed enough water to fill a bathtub.
Oh, God, the carpet! What was I going to do about the carpet?
Somehow, the realization that I was going to have to deal not only with a defunct water heater, but flooded carpeting, as well, sent me over the edge.
Not just a little over the edge, either.
A lot over the edge.
I turned away from the water heater and barely made it two steps before I threw up. Right there, all over the ruined carpet.
Followed immediately by crying, of course.
Naturally. Isn’t that what one does?
I sat down in the middle of the room, freshly showered and wrapped in a towel, and cried until I had nothing left to cry.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing I knew, I was being awakened by the sound of the doorbell being rung. Not once, not twice, but repeatedly.
Whoever was out there was either determined to be let in or determined to lose an index finger and have it shoved up their—
I felt as though I had a hangover.
My head was pounding, my eyes were swollen, and I was completely disoriented. The room was dark now that the sun had gone down, and the open windows that had previously been a source of natural light were now letting in only the soft glow of streetlights.
How long had I been asleep? I wondered, staring into the grayness that seemed to envelop the room.
And who in the name of all that was good and holy was ringing the doorbell?
I rolled off my side and put my hand down on the carpet to sit up. The carpet sucked my hand into the depths of its soaked pile, and I remembered everything all in a flash that had the force of a slap across the face.
I took a deep breath—a deep, mind cleansing breath to battle the panic I could start to feel forming a knot in my chest.
And held it in.
Something smelled awful.
Something smelled absolutely foul.
Apparently, the crying fit I’d had earlier had precluded any post-throw-up damage control; and the puddle of it was now fermenting on the carpet.
And still the doorbell kept right on ringing.
I’d been wrapped in a towel when I’d fallen asleep earlier, and now it was sort of bunched