Jen Lancaster - If You Were Here

Lululemon shakes her head in disbelief. “I don’t understand. I just sat down for a second to take a call and. . I didn’t even know he was gone. I didn’t know.” She sinks heavily into the lawn chair and buries her face into Gregor’s chest. “I didn’t know.”

I stand there awkwardly in my bathing suit and I’m not really sure what to do next, as I’ve never been around her when she’s not shouting at me. Do I just leave? Do I reassure her? This is all new territory for me. I begin to back away and she stops me.

“How can I possibly repay you? You saved Gregor’s life. My family is in your debt.”

I look her up and down, and for a second my mind races to all the things I could request. I get the feeling I’m in the position to name my own price, considering the garden alone on this place is easily worth six figures. Oh, and I bet the ladies in this neighborhood would have a field day if they heard about this little incident. I could probably even get pool-house-shower access if I play my cards right.

And then I instantly feel guilty for even imagining capitalizing on this incident. Doing right by someone else isn’t about getting paid back.

“Two things,” I say. “First, I want to be left alone. Let me be very clear about that. If you don’t approve of the construction noise or the flowers I’ve planted or my mailbox, I want you to keep it to yourself. According to all sixteen of the petitions I’ve received, you, Mrs. A. J. Bain, are the neighborhood president; ergo, you’re in charge. I imagine you have the power to call off the dogs. Everyone around here follows your lead; am I right?”

Numbly, she nods.

“And number two?” She braces herself for what I’m about to say next, knowing she’s in no position to negotiate. “I want to know your first name.”

Her expression’s colored with caution and suspicion. “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nope.”

She exhales heavily, never once letting up her death grip on her son. “My name is Amanda.”

“Then it’s nice to meet you. I’m Mia.” We regard each other long and hard. I have sincere doubts that we’ll ever be friends, but I bet maybe, just maybe, if I needed some sugar she’d lend it to me.

“I can never thank you enough.”

“No need.” Things are going to be different from here on out. And you know what? I’m fine with that.

I begin to make my way back to the gate and then I remember something. “One more thing, though? I have to go wash my hair in the lake now and I’d appreciate not getting a petition about it. See you later.”

It’s amazing what a little passive aggression can accomplish.

I ease back into the tub as the water pours down on my feet. This is far and away the finest bath I’ve ever taken. Perhaps Mac believed I meant business yesterday after I impaled his apple core on the satellite antenna of his car with a note attached that read, You’re next , so he had a whole parade of friends up here today to install this tub. I hate that I had to be so childish to get his attention, yet I can’t argue with the results.

The jets aren’t hooked up yet, and this bathroom’s still pretty torn up, but the idea of getting clean in my own home is such a novelty that I don’t even care.

Mac, Luke, and Charlie headed out to celebrate their “massive victory” (their words, not mine — mine were more along the lines of “bare minimum”), so it’s just me, a mug of tea, and Cecily von Ziegesar’s newest book. 154

I take turns alternating the taps with my toes. First the water’s too hot, so I have to cool it down, and then it’s too cold, so vice versa. The taps feel a little loose, but I imagine they’ll tighten up with use. When I hit the cold water, I hear an annoying little whistle, but it’s not nearly as bothersome as, say, washing my hair in the lake or bathing with a bunch of Japanese industrialists, so I ignore it.

I slide down into the water and let my hair fan out around me. This? I could get used to this. I sit up and take a sip of chamomile and then dry the tips of my fingers on a towel so I can turn the page.

Oh, Chuck Bass, you are my favorite bad boy.

My mind drifts to the author — I wonder if she’d ever compromise her principles to write a gritty sex scene in exchange for drywall and fresh paint? My guess is no.

I just ran the hot and I’ve practically poached myself, so I opt to cool things down. With my right foot, I reach the whistling tap and nudge it just a tiny bit to the right. A slow stream pours out and the whistling grows louder.

As I lean in to get a closer look, the faucet makes a clanking sound and then— wham! The tap launches itself off the wall and pegs me directly in the chest and is immediately followed by a fire hose — worthy stream of water that’s coming out so fast and hard that I’m pinned to the back of the tub.

I drop my book in the water and begin to shriek. I spend about ten seconds immobile from shock before I finally scramble forward to reach the tap. I try to block the water, but when I do, it shoots directly upward, drenching all the fresh new drywall hung on the ceiling. Shit!

I attempt to rise, but the water’s coming out so hard and fast that I keep losing my footing and falling backward into the tub. Tidal waves of bathwater spill out over the newly grouted floor and are most likely seeping into the subflooring as I struggle and scream. I fish around in the water for the tap and attempt to screw it back over the gushing water, but the pressure’s so high I can’t get it connected.

I finally get the bright idea to stanch the flow with a towel, and I’m able to crawl, freezing and furious, out of the bath.

From what I ascertain, in their haste to celebrate their victory in assembling the tub, one of Mac’s dim-witted cohorts forgot to tighten the tap with a wrench, and the buildup of water pressure caused it to fly off and, essentially, waterboard me.

I have to gather up every towel in the house to sop up all the water on the floor. I slip in puddles twice, soaking my shorts all the way down to my underwear, so I yank off my bottoms and continue my mopping in the buff from the waist down. Every time I saturate a towel, I toss it in the tub, which now appears to be overflowing with terry cloth.

I’m all bent over getting up the last of the water when I hear a noise behind me.

Fortunately it’s just Mac and not a couple of Japanese investors. He’s somewhat unsteady after a night out, and he seems more than a little puzzled about my state of undress.

“Hey, where are your pants?” He squints as he takes in the scene. “And what’d ya do to the ceiling?”

I say nothing, choosing instead to pitch my waterlogged copy of Don’t You Forget about Me at him. I miss him by a mile and I’m perversely disappointed by this.

I bet Blair Waldorf never had to put up with this shit from Chuck Bass.

What fresh hell is this?

Judging from the commotion coming from downstairs, I’m guessing it’s a bunch of monkeys clanging metal pipes with wrenches.

Because it’s absolutely impossible to concentrate on my last few book revisions with all this racket, I go downstairs to grab a Diet Coke and find out the source of the noise. When I reach the kitchen, I stumble across Charlie, who is, ironically, underneath the cabinet, clanging a metal pipe with a monkey wrench.

“Should I even ask?” I inquire, glancing down at Charlie, who appears to be doing nothing but playing a jaunty tune on the kitchen plumbing.

Mac shakes his head. “It’s probably best if you don’t.”

I nod and return to my office. I fool around with my manuscript a little more, doing my best to scrub any and all Restoration Hardware references from everyone’s conversations. Then I glance down at my watch and realize I’m almost late for my call with Ann Marie. I dial quickly and she answers on the first ring.