Chapter 9: The Couch Rule

Rain started at midnight, and the roof of the loft started to leak at one.

I heard the drip from the bed, a slow tap on wood, and I lay there counting it.

Then I heard a chair scrape.

I put on Eli's grey sweatshirt, which he had left on the end of the bed, and opened my door.

He was standing on a kitchen chair in the middle of the room with a flashlight in his teeth.

He was reaching up toward a dark stain in the ceiling.

A bucket sat under him. Another sat by the sink.

"Go back to bed," he said around the flashlight.

"You're going to fall."

"I'm not going to fall."

"You have one working hand."

He took the flashlight out of his mouth. "I have a hand and a half."

I walked over and took hold of the chair back with both hands.

"Hold the light," he said, and passed it down.

I aimed it at the stain while he pressed a flat piece of sealant against the seam.

His arm was bare to the elbow, and his shirt had ridden up at the hem.

The chair wobbled, and I grabbed it with one hand and braced the other against his thigh.

I felt the muscle go tight under my palm.

He didn't say anything.

I didn't move my hand.

It was a perfectly good reason. The chair was unstable, and a person had to hold it steady.

The drip stopped.

He stepped down. I should have let go of him then.

I hadn't.

My hand was still on his leg, and he was looking down at it.

"Eliza."

"The chair was wobbling."

"It's stopped."