Page 125 of Error Handling
“Looking forward to it,” Chris says. But I don’t believe him.
“Me neither,” I say. “We can eat fast and leave. Then, I can take you over to my mom’s cottage and we can feel awkward all over again.”
Chris widens his eyes.
“Kidding. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
His expression relaxes, and one side of his mouth turns up.
The half-smile.
I feel like I just won a goldfish at the carnival. Now, I need to figure out how to get him to engage both sides of his mouth at once.
“Okay. Let’s do this,” I say.
I lead the way to the open staircase in the center of the rec room. We ascend, and then my day gets exponentially worse.
“Sarah,” Mom says. She stands up from the pastel floral couch, a panoramic view of the dunes framing her thin body. “We’ve been watching the storm clouds come in. Oh, you’re a little red. Did you wear your sunscreen?”
“Mom?”
Mary shoots me an apologetic look from the kitchen. She’s at the island tossing iceberg lettuce with carrot slices and purple cabbage. Dad is sitting on the recliner opposite the flatscreen TV. He has one ankle on his other knee, flip-flops on his feet, and a hard expression on his face.
“Hi, Chris,” Mom says. “We met on the beach.”
“What are you doing here, Mom?”
“She invited herself,” Dad says in a loud, gruff voice.
“I thought it would be easier for you,” Mom says. “That way you don’t have to bring Chris down to my cottage tonight.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
“I was afraid of that, and I couldn’t let Dad have all the fun on this momentous occasion. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet aboyfriend.”
“Don’t start, Mom.”
“What? I think it’s cute.” And then she whispers, “I think he’s cute,” like Chris can’t hear.
Maybe this is why I’ve never had a boyfriend. This, right here. I feel like a fourteen-year-old on my way to the homecoming dance.
Wind whips against the picture window. The distant waves, which had been calm during my walk with Chris, form whitecaps and crash against the beach.
“Did you enjoy the beach? You looked like you were enjoying it.” Mom shifts her attention to Chris, and I don’t know if that’sbetter or worse. There’s an infinite number of ways she can embarrass him.
Chris answers. They go back and forth about life in Charleston while I walk over to the kitchen and grab a couple of wine glasses. I’m not usually a drinker, but this occasion calls for it. While I’m pouring the sweet red wine, Mary joins me at the counter. A distant rumble of thunder accompanies her.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “She invited herself. She just came in.”
“That’s okay,” I say.
“Is it? How is your anxiety?”
“Worse now that she’s here.”
“Remember to take deep breaths. If the conversation gets too awkward, I’ll try to take it in another direction.”
“Thanks, Mary.” I smile at her and then take a sip of wine. I immediately remember why I don’t drink alcohol. The aftertaste makes me wince.