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Probably…
Derek frowned.
Buying this apartment had been one bad decision in a series after Michelle’s second failed knee surgery. It wasn’t her fault the medical bills had piled up along with other less-essential credit card bills. That crack Derek had made about credit cards had really been about Michelle. He shouldn’t have said it, especially since it seemed to have touched a nerve. But it was probably just his own guilty conscience not wanting anyone, even Gallagher, to go through what Michelle had just gone through after her own career crisis. But now, because of Derek’s own asshole words from before, he didn’t feel like he had any right to ask for specifics about Gallagher’s situation. Anything he asked would probably just seem like more of the same unfair assumptions and accusations.
Hearing voices from in his bedroom, Derek placed the photo back on the pile and headed down the hallway. Gallagher stood next to a small, grizzled white man with thick glasses. He looked absolutely nothing like the prototypical American-TV version of a plumber. He looked like an accountant in a jumpsuit.
“—is the problem.” Oh, so when Dylan said Irish, he’d meant actually recently from Ireland Irish with a thick accent. “Hallo there. Are you the owner here?”
“That depends on how bad the diagnosis is.” Derek’s heart pumped faster.
“Well, son, it could be worse.”
“That’s a good start, but I’m sensing a but coming.” Derek braced like he was watching a lingerie-clad blonde run into the Appalachian woods at three A.M. while knowing an axe murderer was on the loose. The jump-scare killing blow was coming. Everyone in the room knew it.
Dylan did the hair smoothing/hat thing again. Was he deliberately avoiding making eye contact with Derek? Was Derek being paranoid?
The small man climbed down the ladder and extended his hand. “Liam Byrne. Nice to meet you.”
“Not Gallagher?”
“No, his mum’s my baby sister. She’s a Byrne.” He laughed. “See.” The man pointed to Gallagher’s deep-blue eyes, sweeping the hair away. “The Byrne eyes.”
Gallagher swatted his uncle’s hand with a guarded smile.
Eyes twinkling at his nephew, Mr. Byrne tucked his pen in his clipboard before returning his focus to Derek. “We don’t have all the details yet with the walls still up, but I can give you the important points.”
Maybe the lilting accent would make the words, You might as well just light your bank account on fire less of a stab in the gut.
“I won’t lie to you. It’s going to be expensive. A lot of homeowner’s policies have specific portions ruling out paying for slow damage building up over a long period of time. My best guess is that slow drip from several of the joints—shoddy work.” The same word Dylan had used. Liam exchanged regretful, knowing looks with Gallagher.
“Fuck…” Derek flinched. “Sorry.”
“I’m Catholic, but not a saint. You got a real motherfucking mess on your hands here, but it could be worse. For starters, seems like this here kid fell through the floor at the exact weakest spot when this joist gave out. Bad luck on one hand, but I reckon it’s lucky he didn’t break his neck, so we’ll call it a win. This joist pulled away and crumbled into mulch. Bad sign.”
Derek swallowed. He had been regretting not having coffee, but now he was regretting not having a whiskey before this conversation.
“There only seems to be one joist that’s rotten. My nephew was right about that. I’m willing to give you a family discount on my diagnostic services today, because young Dilly can sweet-talk and I heard you bought the place to help your sister. But you’ll still have to pay for labor and materials.”
Derek nodded. He hadn’t missed the way the nickname made Gallagher shrivel.
What followed was a long discussion of numbers and metals and timelines that left Derek’s head spinning. Being an adult sucked.
After the small plumbing Irishman left, Derek rested his forehead on the wall. What he really wanted to do was punch the damn thing down, since it would be coming down anyway.
This apartment was less than eight hundred square feet. The amount of money he’d have to spend to fix it was dizzying. And that wasn’t counting the mold abatement costs, which could be a few more thousand.
“Um… you okay?”
Derek hadn’t even noticed Gallagher come back in the room. “No.”
“I know it seems like a lot, but we’ll get it done.”
Something about that “we’ll” gave Derek the energy to stand straight again even if the pity in Dylan’s expression made his stomach sink. “What’s next?”
Gallagher’s face shifted, mirroring the gloomy resignation that Derek imagined was on his own. “Now I have to call the three Icemen of the Apocalypse.”
“Don’t you mean Horsemen?”