D. Graham - Put It Out There

Murphy nodded his greeting and said, “Welcome home, Deri. Everyone missed you last year.” He smacked Trevor’s shoulder, then turned in his seat and studied my face with a perplexed expression.

“What?” I frowned and leaned back against the seat.

“You look different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

“Well, that’s kind of a trick question. It’s not a bad different, but if I say it’s a good different, you’ll assume there was something wrong with how you looked before, which there wasn’t. So. Just different. Right, Trev?”

Ignoring the good-versus-bad debate, Trevor lifted his chin in the direction Steve had gone and asked, “What was that?”

“What was what?” I mumbled.

“It looked like maybe you were getting asked out on a date.”

Murphy seemed to enjoy the embarrassment that was probably evident from either the burning fuchsia cheeks, the sinking posture, or the slight groan. “We’re just friends,” I finally said to make them leave me alone.

“What’s his name?” Trevor asked, as he shifted the truck into reverse and backed out of the parking stall.

“Steve.”

“Steve what?”

“What difference does it make?” I shook my head and stared out the window, wishing he would drop it.

“I’m not going to let you go out with some random guy without doing a background check on him first.”

“He’s not random, and who made it your job to screen my boyfriends?”

“Oh, he’s your boyfriend?” Trevor faked a gasp and shot an overly exaggerated incredulous look at Murphy.

“No, he’s not my boyfriend, and I don’t need you doing background checks on anyone. I’m not a little kid, and you’re not my big brother.”

“I’m still going to watch out for you. Nothing will stop me from doing that.”

I glanced up and our eyes met in the rearview mirror. Based on how much his tone resembled the one he used when he was being protective over Kailyn, I knew he wasn’t joking. I could take care of myself, but since my dad would have been comforted by Trevor keeping an eye on me, I didn’t bother to argue.

Murphy broke the silence between us by telling me a story about how they got mugged at gun point in Brazil. Fortunately, they only had a small amount of cash on them and the guy didn’t take their passports. Besides that incident, the rest of the stories sounded like amazing experiences.

Murphy was a member of the Squamish nation and his ancestors had lived in the Squamish area, literally, since the beginning of time. He was headed down to Britannia with us because Trevor’s dad had planned a welcome-home barbecue for them with all the Search and Rescue volunteers. They never usually invited me to their parties, so when Murphy asked, “Are you coming?” my mouth dropped open in shock.

“Uh,” I glanced at Trevor. His expression was completely indecipherable. “Trevor hadn’t mentioned it, so I didn’t know I was invited. But, I don’t have any other plans tonight. So, I guess. Sure.”

“Great,” Murphy said, and punched Trevor’s shoulder.

Trevor didn’t appear impressed, and I wasn’t sure if it was because he wished Murphy hadn’t invited his honorary little sister to a party with every good-looking fire fighter, forest ranger, ski-patrol member, and pilot who lived in the Squamish district, or if the shot to the shoulder had actually hurt.

When we pulled into the parking lot in front of the Inn, the fire alarm was ringing. Trevor skidded to a stop as the guests crowded out the exits. Both he and Murphy jumped out before I even fully processed what was going on. Of all the worst-case scenarios for the Inn I’d been worried about, burning down was not one I had considered.

Once I snapped out of my shocked stupor, I hopped out of Trevor’s truck and wove through the flow of guests as they evacuated the Inn. I couldn’t see or smell smoke, so I rushed into the lobby to search for my granddad. Murphy headed through the dining room towards the kitchen. Trevor took the stairs two at a time up to the second floor. I ran down the first-floor hall but stopped abruptly when I turned the corner and saw the problem.

Massive amounts of water poured from the ceiling through the light fixtures. It was already ankle deep. Not sure what to do, I stood stunned, motionless, and getting drenched until Trevor rushed down the hall and passed me. He leaned on the emergency-exit handle and pushed it outwards to let the water flow out into the parking lot. “Everything’s fine upstairs,” he said, not even out of breath. “But there is an elderly guest who needs help with the stairs. Ask your grandpa to turn the water off while I go back up and help her.”

I nodded, but he was already gone before what he asked me to do sunk in. I sloshed through the water back towards the lobby. My granddad was out on the front porch and announced to the crowd, “It’s just a false alarm. The fire department will assess the situation and give us the all clear to go back in shortly. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

They mumbled things like how they should have stayed in a modern place in Squamish.

When Granddad saw me, his white caterpillar eyebrows angled together. “Why are you wet?”

“It’s not a false alarm this time,” I whispered and glanced at the unhappy guests. “The sprinklers are going off in the hall by my room. It’s flooding.”

“Did you see a fire?”

“No.”

“Did you smell smoke?”

“No, and the sprinklers aren’t going off anywhere else.”

We both ducked back inside. He waddled around to check the panel behind the front desk, pushed his glasses up his nose, and squinted at the little lights. “It looks like a pipe burst.” He turned and rushed towards the boiler room.

Ten seconds later, the screeching and clunking sounds of the water being shut off echoed through the building. The alarm stopped. Granddad appeared, grumbling about the rusted-out pipes and cursing the building for not being worth saving. He shook his head as he dialled the phone to call a plumbing company. I waded down the hallway towards my room, hoping the damage wasn’t too bad.

It was bad.

Streams of water dripped out of the light fixtures, making them flicker. The floral wallpaper drooped over in heavy, sopping strips. The roof tiles were sagged in some areas, and broken in others. It looked horrible. Trevor and Murphy helped members of the volunteer fire department carry pieces of antique hallway furniture and my grandmother’s oil paintings out to the parking lot. I quickly collected some of the more valuable items to help. It was already too late for the silk flower arrangements, which was fine. I never liked those dust collectors anyway. I arranged everything on a dry part of the parking lot and rushed back to find more things. Nothing else could be saved. When Trevor stepped inside, he ran his hands through his wet hair to push it off his face and smiled.

“Why are you happy?” I mumbled, fighting tears. “Everything’s ruined.”

“Don’t worry. It can be fixed.”

“We can’t afford to fix it,” I snapped, because if I didn’t get angry, I was going to burst out in full-blown tears.

Knowing me as well as he did, he saw the panic underneath the frustration. “Insurance will cover it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Cheer up.” He mussed my hair and poked me in the ribs playfully. “You just got your renovations paid for.”

I scanned the damage to the hallway, and a smile crept onto my face as I realized the disaster was potentially a great thing.

Trevor laughed as he reached up, removed the glass, shell-shaped covers to the wall sconces and tipped the water out of them. “When did you start wearing make-up? You look like that racoon we saved from drowning when we were kids.”