She looks at me for a long moment. "Okay."
And that's it. She doesn't push. Doesn't ask what I did or where I served or any of the other questions people usually ask when they're trying to figure out what's wrong with you.
She just lets it sit.
We pull up to her house a few minutes later. The old Porter place, sitting at the end of a long driveway, surrounded by trees and overgrown grass. It's a good house. Solid bones. Needs work, but it's got potential.
I kill the engine and sit there for a second, trying to remember why I thought this was a good idea.
"Okay," she says, opening the door. "Prepare yourself. It's bad."
Ridge jumps out after her and I follow, grabbing my toolbox from the bed of the truck.
The kitchen is exactly as bad as she said it would be.
There's water everywhere. Pooled on the counter, dripping onto the floor, spreading out in a slow, determined march toward the living room. The cabinet under the sink is open, and I can see the problem immediately. As expected, she overtightened the faucet assembly, cracked the seal, and now the whole thing is leaking like a sieve.
"I know," she says, seeing my expression. "I really thought I was doing it right."
I set the toolbox down and crouch in front of the sink, taking a closer look. It's not unfixable. It's just going to take some time.
"You got towels?" I ask.
"Yes. Lots. I've been using all of them."
"Get them."
She disappears and comes back a minute later with an armful of towels. I start mopping up the water under the sink, then reach in and shut off the water supply. The dripping slows, then stops.
"Okay," I say, sitting back on my heels. "You're going to need a new cartridge assembly. This one's shot."
"Of course it is," she says. "Because why would anything be easy?"
"You want easy, don't buy a house built in the eighties."
She laughs, and the sound fills the kitchen in a way that feels too big for the space. "Noted. So, what do I do?"
I walk her through it: what she needs, where to get it, how to install it without breaking anything else. She listens, askingquestions that make sense and nodding when I explain the parts she doesn't know.
She's smart. I can see that. And she's not afraid to admit when she doesn't understand something, which is rarer than it should be.
"Think you can handle it?" I ask when I'm done.
"I think so," she says. "And if I can't, I know where you live now."
"Don't make that a habit."
"What, asking for help?"
"Showing up at my cabin."
She grins. "No promises."
I should tell her no. I should make it clear that this was a one-time thing, that I'm not the guy she calls when something goes wrong, that she needs to find someone else to be her small-town handyman.
But I don't.
I just pick up my toolbox and head for the door.