Finding Kyle(10)

Unfortunately, the handle doesn’t budge. I try pushing it upward, but I know that’s not right. It has to come down, and I dubiously eye the rust around the bolt that holds it in place.

“Fuck,” I mutter, which is uncharacteristic language from me, but it’s warranted in this case.

I grab the handle again, lay my other hand on top for extra leverage, and literally start to pull with my entire body weight as I let my knees bend so I start to sink downward from my perch on the ladder.

I hear a creak, and this bolsters me.

I pull harder, giving an unladylike grunt with my effort.

With a scream of rust and metal, the handle moves so swiftly I almost fall off the ladder, but I manage to gain my balance. It takes me several dumb blinks of my eyes as I stare at the handle that broke off and is now sitting in my hands to register what happened. I lift my head slowly and gaze up at the valve, still wide open and now with no clear way on how to shut it off. I can still vaguely hear the hiss of water spraying from the kitchen that’s filtering through the open doors, and I feel my mind completely shut down.

In an instant, I become a totally helpless female, and there’s only one man close enough who could potentially salvage my house.

Without a thought to the fact I’m barefoot, soaked through to the bone, and looking like a drowned rat, I scramble off the ladder and jet out of the utility room. I run gingerly along the side of the house, the lawn starting to soften with new grass but also still having prickly winter blades beneath, and slow a bit further as I cross over the dirt lane that, while mostly dirt, also has rocks and some gravel mixed within. It’s back to a cautious run across his yard and up his three porch steps.

I’m not surprised to see Kyle’s old truck sitting outside his cottage because where else would he be at 6:45 in the morning? Neither am I reluctant in the slightest to start banging on his front door, frantic with the thought that every passing minute probably means another inch of water in my kitchen.

It’s probably after only about seven bangs on the door, which are hard enough to rattle the small square panes of glass within, that I hear a very grumpy voice yell out, “I’m coming, for fuck’s sake.”

My hand falls away from the door. I bounce from foot to foot with anxiety as I wait for him to open it. I’m practically hopping with eagerness to get help at last when I hear the lock turning.

Kyle pulls the door open. His eyebrows shoot high when he sees me there. He holds my gaze impassively for a second before he looks slowly down my body, taking in my wet hair, soaked nightgown and dirty feet.

“Pipe,” I gasp out, realizing how out of breath I am not only from the adrenaline coursing through me, but also from the mad dash over here. “Burst. Water everywhere.”

His eyes snap back up to mine. “What?”

And then, complete lunacy bursts forth from my lips as I hold out the red valve for him to see. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope. Star Wars, 1977.”

He doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t smirk.

He doesn’t roll his eyes.

But he does offer me aid. “Let me get my tools.”

Kyle turns away from me and walks back into his house, leaving the front door open. I stay on the porch, continuing to rock from side to side on my feet while shooting cautious glances back at my house, afraid I’ll see a geyser burst through the roof at any moment.

“Let’s go,” Kyle says as he reappears holding a tool bag. For the first time, I notice he doesn’t have a shirt on. Just a pair of jeans—faded and well fit—along with a pair of unlaced work boots. I’m thinking I might have woken him up. While this would be prime opportunity for me to check out his tattoos, I can’t even think about that now.

I don’t wait for Kyle. I turn around, practically fly off his porch, and start running back to my house. I can hear Kyle’s heavy boots hitting the earth right behind me, clearly impressed with the urgency of the matter. The minute my feet hit the dirt and gravel lane, I slow considerably and curse to myself when the rocks dig into my feet as I start to hobble across.

I’m surprised when an arm wraps around my waist and I’m lifted off my feet, which dangle just above the rocky dirt road as Kyle carries me across.

How gallant.

How very sweet.

He practically dumps me to the grass when we reach the other side.

How barbaric.

But still, he’s coming to help, so I can’t take him too much to task.

We jog along my house. Just when we near my back door, Kyle asks, “Did you try to shut off the water anywhere else?”

He clearly recognized that the main valve was broken off when I held it up for him to observe just a few minutes ago.

“Yes,” I huff out at him as I point my finger toward the open back door. “It’s the kitchen sink. The valve underneath doesn’t have a knob on it.”

“Let’s start there,” he mutters and heads into my house. I follow behind, but he doesn’t need my directions. He just follows the sound of Old Faithful blowing steadily in my kitchen.

I cringe as we enter, particularly because there’s a good two inches of water on the floor that’s started running into the living room and partially down the hallway. Kyle doesn’t hesitate. He just walks straight into the waterfall that’s raining down, dropping to his knees in front of the cupboard. He peers in as he sets the bag on the ground. After only a moment’s perusal, he’s pulling out an adjustable wrench.