Page 100 of Error Handling

When the album ends, I pause Spotify, feeling resolved to take matters into my own hands. I suck in a deep breath and expel it before heading into the kitchen.

Chris’s toolbelt hangs low, emphasizing his thin waist. He wears his favorite uniform, a white T-shirt, this one stained here and there. His ponytail, meant to keep his hair off his cheeks, is failing. A bevy of curls dances around his head as he pushes the Formica countertop into position.

I lean against the fridge, cross my feet at the ankle, and my arms in front of my chest. And wait.

And wait.

I clear my throat.

Chris looks over his shoulder with a start. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Obviously,” I say, double meaning intended. “Do you mind taking a break?”

“I’m just about done securing the countertop. Can it wait till I’m done?”

“Nope.”

Chris turns around and runs a hand through his mutiny of curls. “Okay.” He leans against the cabinets.

“I feel like you’re ignoring me.”

“I’m not.”

“We’ve talked or texted every day for the last I don’t know how many days, and then we make out, and all of a sudden you start acting weird.”

Chris purses his lips. He pulls his ponytail holder out and shakes his head to let the remaining curls hang freely. They frame his face in an irresistible fashion.

I’m mad, I remind myself. I fight off flashbacks from Saturday afternoon when I ran my fingers through those curls while lying next to him on his couch.

“Put your hair back up,” I say. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

He looks at me quizzically, a half-smile lifting the corner of his lips. “Like what?”

“With your gorgeous hair caressing your gorgeous cheeks in your gorgeous jeans that rest perfectly against your gorgeous behind.”

Chris feels his backside. “You’ve been looking at my behind?”

“How can I not?” My tone has almost reached “tizzy” volume. “And I wait and I wait and I wait and you never text me or call me. And then you come in here and barely say hello.”

“You didn’t even look at me when I came in.”

“Because.” I gesture at the length of his body. “I can’t stay mad when I look at this! And I want to be mad at you, Chris Butcher!”

That garners a full smile from Chris. “It was only a few days.”

“Don’t play dumb. You left without saying goodbye on Saturday.”

“I know. I—”

“Were you just using me?”

Chris’s smile drops with a thud. “No. Not at all. It’s just... I’m leaving, and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You already have. And I don’t care if you’re leaving. Have you never heard of Facetime and Google Meet?”

“It’s not the same.”

“Then we have even less time together, so why are we wasting it in this kitchen five feet apart when I could be right next to you?”