Ella is always flexible for me, which I appreciate.
“Sorry about that,” Ella mutters, referring to Lucy’s attitude. She grabs a mug from the cupboard, then holds it up in silent invitation. I nod, and she turns to the pot. “I can’t keep up with her mood shifts anymore.”
“I’m quite sure the shift has everything to do with me,” I offer, willing to take my share of the blame as I head over to the sink.
“Not true,” Ella replies, sitting the cup of black coffee on the counter so it’s in reach. “She’s been doing it to me as well.”
“She’s thirteen.” I turn the spigot on, watch the water run, then start to back up from the disposal drain. “I remember being a shit to my parents at that age.”
Ella laughs. “Me too.”
It’s her laugh and not her words that have me twisting toward her. It’s been a while since I’ve heard it in response to something I’ve said, and I’d forgotten how much I like making her laugh.
I mask my reaction, instead pointing at the garbage disposal. “I’m going to have to remove the drainpipe from under the sink. Let me get my tools.”
Ella nods, moving over to her laptop, which she has sitting on a tiny nook desk off the left of the island. I can see she has Facebook up, which she uses mainly to keep in touch with family and friends from back home in Michigan.
I head into the garage, which is off the kitchen with a mudroom in between. I hadn’t bothered taking any of my tools with me when I’d moved into my new house. It’s a rental, and anything I might need fixed, I have a landlord to handle it. But I’m good with my hands and have always been mechanically minded, so, over the years, I’ve learned all the basic household repairs that need to be made.
Before heading to my toolbox, I see a bunch of cardboard boxes stacked in the garage, a byproduct of Ella ordering most of our household needs from Amazon. It had always been my job to break them down to fit in the large recycle bin but there has to be several weeks of boxes sitting out here. No wonder her Escalade is in the driveway, as no way it can fit in here.
I take a few extra minutes to nab the boxcutter from my toolbox and make short work of the boxes, stacking them neatly in one corner so Ella can get her car in the garage.
After, I grab an adjustable wrench before returning to the kitchen. Silently, Ella scrolls through Facebook, and I roll up my sleeves—metaphorically—to get the job done. After pulling out all the cleaning supplies kept in the cabinet under the sink and turning off the main water source, I kneel on the tiled floor and get to work. I don’t bother telling her I handled the boxes for her; she’ll figure it out soon enough.
I let the silence carry on for a bit while I uncouple the pipe at the disposal drain before asking, “So… are you still seeing Mr. Ordinary?”
My back is to Ella, but I can hear her whip around in her chair. “Mr. Ordinary?”
Her tone is defensive, not inquisitive, so she knows exactly who I’m talking about. But I humor her. “Yeah… the dude you were with at the food festival.”
“He has a name,” she snaps, and I hear the scrape of her chair against the tile, then the padding of her bare feet as she marches over to stand beside me. I glance at her pretty red toenails, forcing myself not to look at her legs, and concentrate on affixing the adjustable wrench to the coupling.
“Who has a name?” I ask facetiously, hiding a smirk.
“Mr. Ordinary,” she replies, but then curses.
“Aha,” I exclaim. Tilting my head, I shoot her a smile. “You agree then… he’s ordinary.”
She’s not amused, as evidenced by the flash of fire in her eyes. Through gritted teeth, she says, “His name is David.”
“Sounds ordinary,” I reply, turning my attention to the drain.
“Sort of like Jim?” she inquires sweetly.
I don’t even look at her as I mutter, “Touché.”
My first name is James, I go by Jim, but most people in the hockey community call me Steele, which is my last name. I suppose when “Jim” is stacked up against “Steele,” it could be considered ordinary.
When I glance up, she has leaned her hip against the counter, arms crossed over her chest as she glares at