“A gentleman as always,” she mutters. She cranes her neck to check a clock on the far wall. “Hm. Weird. Mom was supposed to be back by now. She said she had to run to the grocery store.”
The pipes groan as I twist the final coupling. “Try the water now.”
She scrambles to turn on the faucet. After a brief belch, a healthy gush streams into her cupped hands. “Holy s**t. You’re like a Russian Bob Vila.”
“He’s a— Never mind.” She hesitates. “Thanks, Sasha.”
Before I can respond, the front door clicks.
“Ari? You still here? You didn’t drown underneath the sink, did you? Goodness, the checkout aisle was—” Belle freezes, grocery bags dangling. Her eyes—which are Ariel’s eyes, but weathered by older storms—dart between us.
Ariel steps forward. “Sasha, this is my mom. Mom, this is—”
“Ozerov
