Chapter 3 | The Broken Faucet
1077 Words
Dante's POV
The sink is leaking again.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
At 11:47PM.
I’m in my kitchen, off-duty, still wearing my chef pants. My hands smell like garlic and failure. Hotel was packed. Head Chef yelled about a cold steak. Mimi had a fever of 38.2 when I got home. And now the faucet won’t stop.
I hit it. Hard. With my palm.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Mimi is asleep on the couch, forehead damp. I gave her meds an hour ago. She’s okay. She has to be okay. I don’t have a Plan B if she’s not.
I don’t have a wrench.
I don’t have money for a plumber.
I don’t have time.
I don’t have anything left.
Drip.
“Fuck.”
The word is too loud in the quiet.
Mimi stirs. “Daddy?”
“It’s okay, anak. Go back to sleep.”
My voice is low. I keep it low for her. Always. The world is loud enough. My apartment doesn’t have to be.
She mumbles, eyes still closed, “Ate Cass can fix it…”
No.
I am not knocking on 4A.
I am not.
Drip.
Water is pooling on the floor now. Reaching the rug. The rug Mimi’s mom picked out three years ago. Blue. Soft. The only thing in this apartment that still looks like us.
“Shit.”
I grab a towel. It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.
Knock. Knock.
I freeze.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Cassie.
How does she always know? Does she sit by the wall and listen for me breaking?
I open the door.
I’m soaked from the waist down. Hair messy. Face probably murderous. I look like a man who’s losing.
She’s in an oversized shirt and shorts. Hair in a messy bun. Bare feet. Holding a toolbox. A pink one. With sunflowers painted on the side.
“Water emergency?” she says. Like it’s normal. Like I’m normal.
“How did you—”
“I heard you cursing from my shop,” she cuts in. “And your floor is leaking into mine.”
She steps inside before I can say no. Before I can remember I don’t let people in.
“Put that towel down, Chef. You’re making it worse.”
I don’t move.
“Mimi’s sick,” I say.
It’s the only excuse I have. The only wall left.
Cassie’s eyes go to the couch immediately. Soft. All the sharp edges gone.
“I know. I heard her coughing earlier.”
She crouches by Mimi, checks her forehead with the back of her hand. Quick. Careful. Like she’s done it before. “38.1. Not bad. You gave her meds?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She stands up. All business now. Shoulders back. “Kitchen. Now.”
She walks past me.
She smells like paint and something sweet. Not perfume. Soap. Clean laundry. Home.
I should tell her to leave.
I don’t.
In the kitchen, she kneels under the sink. No hesitation. No “eww.” No looking at me for permission. Just opens the toolbox with a click.
“Wrench. Teflon tape. Bucket,” she lists.
“You have a bucket?”
I point. Under the sink. Where everything broken goes.
She grabs it. “You know how to do this?” I ask.
Because I don’t. I can make a steak, not fix a pipe.
“My dad was a janitor,” she says, not looking up. Her voice is steady under the sink. “I grew up fixing things he couldn’t afford to replace. Including him.”
Silence.
Just the sound of metal on metal.
Drip… stops.
She tightens one last bolt. Wipes her hands on her shorts. Leaves a wet smear. “Done.”
I stare at the sink. Dry.
It feels like a miracle.
“Thank you.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth. Rusty. Like I haven’t used them in years.
She stands up. Too close. Water on the floor between us.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “Your floor’s still wet. And Mimi’s room is next to this wall. If it gets moldy, she’ll get sicker.”
She grabs the towels. Starts mopping. Without asking. Without waiting.
“Stop,” I say.
“You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she says, not stopping. Hands moving. “That’s why I am.”
We mop in silence.
Her hair falls out of her bun. She tucks it behind her ear with a wet hand. There’s paint on her cheek. Blue. I should look away. I don’t.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask finally.
Because no one does. Not for free. Not for me.
She stops. Looks up at me from the floor. Knees wet. Hair falling.
“Because you’re mad at a faucet, Dante. Not at me.”
My name in her mouth sounds wrong. Too soft. Too familiar. Like she’s said it in her head a hundred times.
“Go home, Cassie.”
“I will,” she says. “After.”
She finishes. Stands up. Puts the toolbox down. Water drips from her shorts to the floor.
Mimi stirs again. “Ate Cass?”
Cassie’s whole face changes. Soft. Instant. Like a light turned on.
“Hey, baby. Daddy’s sink is fixed now.”
Mimi smiles, half-asleep. “You’re a superhero.”
“No,” Cassie says, and her eyes flick to me. Just for a second. “Your dad is. He just doesn’t know it yet.”
She walks to the door.
I follow.
I don’t know why. My feet just move.
At the door, she pauses. She pulls something from her pocket. A sunflower. Not from her box. This one’s smaller. Wild. A stem with one bloom.
“Found it outside,” she lies.
I know she kept it from her shop. I know it was supposed to be sold.
“For the mug. With water this time.”
She puts it in my hand. Her fingers are cold. Wet. They linger for half a second too long.
“Goodnight, Chef.”
She leaves.
I close the door.
The sunflower is in my hand. Wet from her palm.
I look at the mug on the counter. The one from two days ago.
This time, I fill it with water first.
Then I put the flower in.
Drip.
No.
The faucet is fixed.
It’s my chest.
And it won’t stop.
End of Chapter 3
- Writer
