Caleb answered the door wearing faded jeans and a gray T-shirt.
He looked at the box.
“Are you moving?”
“No.”
“Then why are you carrying half your living room?”
“I need your drill.”
He grinned.
“That’s a much better opening line.”
“Caleb.”
“All right. Come in.”
He followed me back to my bungalow and examined the damage.
“Willa, what did you do to this wall?”
“I was trying to improve my home.”
“It looks like you tried to fight it.”
“Are you going to help me or write a report?”
He laughed and climbed onto my stepladder.
For the next twenty minutes, he measured, drilled, complained about my crooked walls, and accused me of buying the cheapest curtain rod in Pennsylvania.
I told him he was welcome to leave.
He told me he was too invested in the disaster to abandon it now.
When he finally finished, he stepped back to admire his work.
