Pure Connections

Chapter 4

      A minor leak.

      Jennie resisted the urge to take out her phone, Google synonyms for the word minor, then scream them at Doug, the building manager. A few swirled at the forefront of her mind. Unimportant. Insignificant. Inconsequential. But surely, they could all agree that the gaping hole—the size of her neighbor's clawfoot tub—that had been left in her ceiling was not fucking inconsequential. Never mind the wreck that was her guest room—the shattered legs of the bed that had cradled the fallen tub only for it to tip onto the floor, broken pipe fixtures scattered about the room, water damage seeping into her sandy beige walls.

      Is that... She narrowed her eyes and took a restrained step forward, careful not to make a splash in the shallow pool of water surrounding her heels. Mold?

      How long had it been since she'd last been in here?

      Her body burned from the inside out, due in part to Lisa's unwavering attention, and she could feel a rash blooming on her neck. Five minutes ago, asking Lisa to wait downstairs had seemed impolite—Jennie had no way of knowing how long she'd be inside. But now... Now she was beginning to think having Lis out of earshot would've been the safer option. For reasons she had yet to process, the way Lisa saw her, looked at her, was something Jennie wanted to preserve, and losing her shit in front of Doug, the silvery-haired older woman she assumed to be missing part of her floor, and a meek-looking person strapped with a tool belt would not make a good impression.

      Besides, as long as she took a minute to think before she opened her mouth, she'd remember that she wasn't the type of person to go off on nice enough looking people for an accident. "Yes," she mumbled to herself. "This is no one's fault, and it's perfectly fixable." She spun toward Doug, measuring her words as she peered up at his six-foot linebacker form. "It is fixable, right, Doug?"

      "Of course, of course." His reassurance dripped with a viscous Jersey accent. "Listen, it's like I told you on the phone. Minor leak. They happen, yeah? Poor Mrs. Johnson here, she lives alone." He leaned in, his pale skin flushed and damp with sweat down to the collar of his seafoam green button down. Jennie's nose twitched at the smell of stale cigarettes wafting off him. "Her daughter don't visit too much. You know how it is."

      Jennie sighed, casting a look at the older woman, who seemed to be questioning Lisa about the tattoo on the outside of her wrist. Traces of a smile bloomed in Jennie's chest. She'd never met Mrs. Johnson, even after living in the building for close to a year, and something about that realization made her uncomfortable. Especially if Doug's hot take that Mrs. Johnson was alone most of the time was true. Jennie redirected her attention to the man. "So, what are we looking at here, Doug? Because I don't know if I'm comfortable sleeping in the next room knowing all of this"—she regarded the mess with flagrant contempt—"is waiting in here."

      "Oh, you can't sleep here. At least for..." he trailed off, glancing at the person wearing the tool belt. "What are you thinking, Nellie?"

      "Two weeks."

      Jennie's eyes bulged.

      "Two weeks," Doug repeated.

      "No." Jennie shook her head. "I'm sorry. That doesn't work. Where the fu—" She bit down on the word, breathing a nervous laugh Mrs. Johnson's way before clasping her hands and facing Doug. "And where exactly am I expected to sleep until then?"

      "Sweethea—"

      "You sure that's how you want to start that sentence, Doug?"

      He held up both hands. "Sorry. No offense intended. It's gonna get fixed. You won't be charged a thing, but you cannot sleep here, Jennie. It's a safety hazard."