Page 66 of Meet Cute Reboot

“We didn’t want to worry you,” Nana says matter-of-factly.

“We could have eaten at my place,” I say. “I could have given you a break from this furnace.”

“I grew up without AC. We’re not going to melt.”

“You look like you’re melting, Nana.”

I set the cupcakes on the table, and then I join Mom at the counter to see what she’s making. I was right. Cornbread.

Nana’s fixing fried chicken with red beans and rice. In this heat, none of it sounds appetizing.

“Do you want me to go to the store and get a pineapple or something?” I ask.

Nana shoots me a confused look. “Why would I want pineapple?”

“Because it’s freaking hot in here. All I feel like eating is tropical fruit and salad.”

Nana hmphs.

“Did someone come out to look at the AC?” I ask.

“There’s no fixing it,” she answers.

“So, someone looked?”

“The cost to repair is almost the cost to replace. And they don’t make freon anymore, so it’s moot,” Mom says. She methodicallyspoons her cornbread mixture into a muffin tin with an ice cream scoop.

I collapse into a chair by the table. Exactly what I was afraid of. Nana’s house is falling apart before I have the money to fix it.

“You can’t live here like this,” I say. “It’s too much stress on Granny.”

Nana waves the back of her hand at me. She’s focused on the thermometer in her vat of oil. The breaded chicken sits in a pan on one of the unused burners, ready to be fried.

“I’ll buy you a window AC,” I say. “You can put it by Granny’s chair.”

“I’ve already got one lined up,” Nana answers. “Gina has one in her garage that she’s going to loan me.”

“Meanwhile, you two are going to roast back here in the kitchen.”

Mom bats Nana out of the way with her hip and slides the muffin tin into the preheated oven.

I do a rough calculation in my head. So much of my money is tied up, I’m practically living on rice and beans. However, if things go well, I should have enough net profit by next summer to replace the AC many times over. If not, I’ll find the money somewhere.

Mom’s screams interrupt my mental math. The fizzling sound of squirting water hits my ears. I turn to find Mom taking a full shower at the kitchen sink.

I dart over.

“The faucet’s leaking,” Mom yells over the din of spraying water.

“That’s more than a leak!” I yell.

Nana rushes over and the three of us try, pathetically, to stop the deluge with our hands.

“Turn off the water,” I urge, as high-powered droplets sting my face. All things considered, it’s kind of refreshing.

“We’re trying,” Nana says as she grabs at the base of the faucet.

“I mean, shut off the water main, or whatever it’s called. Watch out.” I crouch and jerk open the cabinet doors under the sink. Thankfully, the shutoff valve is accessible behind a mess of half-used cleaning bottles and rusty, discarded steel wool. The knob screeches as I turn it. Seconds later, the shower ceases, and Mom, Nana, and I are left dripping.