Page 10 of Error Handling
“My mom? No. I can’t convince her of anything.”
“Sounds familiar.” She shrugs. “Well.”
I’m one more comment away from sounding like a complete idiot. And I’m late for my date. “Okay, well...” I point at Jumbo Seafood’s sign.
“You’re late,” she says, finishing my thought for me.
“Yeah.”
We both nod politely and continue along our way. My heart thuds. I feel like I just asked Julia Sipe to dance at the Blackville Heights seventh and eighth grade Valentine’s Day dance. That ended just as well, with beautiful Julia walking away from me.
“Hey.”
Except Julia never called after me.
I turn around.
“You said you were late,” the beautiful, brown-eyed woman says, “for a date?”
I nod.
“Your name wouldn’t happen to be Chris, would it?”
“Sarah?”
A soft smile plays on her lips. “I’m Sarah.”
Chapter 3
Sarah
A gaggle of restaurant patrons flocks outside of Jumbo’s Seafood. People rest against the heavy white trim, sit on the generous concrete sills of the inset windows, and dot the sidewalk in territorial clumps. Someone in each party holds one of those flashy buzzer contraptions. I have no idea what those things are called.
Chris and I are standing at a platonic distance. He’s taller than I am by several inches, despite Cassie’s report that he was short and stubby. She pressed the Choose button in MatchAI for me, squealed when she saw who Cupid matched me with, and I haven’t looked at the app since. Everything I know about Chris I know from Cassie. I trusted her.
But she was wrong about Chris’s height. Great. Now we have nothing in common. And yet. Good. He’s taller than I am. That’s how it always works in my Hollywood fantasies. And really, does it matter that Cassie miscalculated his verticality?Just look at him, a still small voice whispers from the recesses of my mind.
Don’t get excited. He might have clammy hands, a louder, more rational voice says. I hate clammy hands in men. The thought of them touching me. Ick.
I’ve been staring at Chris too long. Silently.
I tear my eyes away from his and focus on the portly thirty-something gentleman holding a mixed drink, wearing a tight turtleneck—so tight the fabric has drawn a red line around his chubby neck.
“It’s crowded,” I say, breaking the awkward silence.
“Let me see how long the wait is.”
I glance at Chris. He nods and wades through the crowd.
Even though he’s gone, I can mentally map every line of his features. It’s my gift. Or curse.
I close my eyes and redraw him in my mind.
Wavy brown hair frames his face, touching his chin in the front, and nearly brushing his shoulders in the back. The layered style accentuates its waviness and causes a curl to loop around his right earlobe every time he nervously tucks it there.
Hair: PASS.
His hairline combines with his jaw to form a square and his chin angles down from it, creating the tip of an obtuse triangle at his slightly dimpled chin. Within this impressive geometry, flawless olive-toned skin creates an undistracting canvas for his features. Some stubble and a few scars only add to his perfection. No weird moles, skin tags, or other strange markings.