Page 139 of Error Handling

This isn’t about Allison.

I tap my phone and pull up the Photos app, scroll to my old photos of Allison, and delete them one by one.

I go to bed early. I don’t want to think anymore. Don’t want to give myself any more chances to second guess myself. Should I have stood up and walked out on Sarah and her family? Should I have stayed through dinner instead and talked to her privately afterward? Is this about Allison?

Enough questions. Enough staring at Sarah’s text and replaying every conversation I’ve ever had with her.

My unconscious mind has other plans. Sarah haunts my dreams. I dream we’re at the park in Branson—the same park where I proposed to Allison—and we’re skipping rocks across the pond, laughing, nearly falling into the green water. Allison walks up behind us and starts yelling at me for being with another woman. While she lays into me, Sarah clutches my arm with both hands protectively. Territorially. And then I wake up.

It's early and I’m sweating, so I jump in the shower and start my day. There isn’t much for me to do on a Saturday except work, especially now that I’m not headed to Sarah’s. Which—I’m not sure how I’m going to work that out. Her living room floors still need to be stained, the farmhouse sink needs installing, and the vinyl flooring needs to be laid in the kitchen. Maybe I’ll call her landlord and tell him to find someone else to finish the job.It’s not like me to leave a job undone, but these are extenuating circumstances.

After my shower, I sit at the kitchen table and flip Handy Manny and his entourage facedown against the tabletop so they can’t stare at me. I don’t want to think about Sarah.

I check the At Your Service app on my phone and see that I have a notification. Someone needs help clearing a plumbing backup. The landlord pinged me specifically. I have working relationships with several of the bigger landlords around town. They appreciate a guy who does good work, and they send me more work because of it.

I press the Accept button to tell the landlord that I’m on my way, grab a gluten-free bagel from the fridge, warm it up for thirty seconds in the microwave, and stuff it in my mouth as I head down to my truck.

When I reach the job, I luck into a parking spot near the house where the ping came from. It’s a yellow Colonial with wood siding and a full porch. The houses in this area are old, which always presents its own set of challenges. I hope for a basement instead of a cramped crawlspace. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and I won’t have to crawl anywhere.

With Charleston’s low elevation, it’s doubtful.

I forget my toolbelt in the truck, but I realize it quickly and retrieve it before heading up the porch steps. After I press the doorbell a couple of times, a woman answers the door. She’s wearing a colorful scarf around her mound of braids, her terry cloth robe indicating she’s having a relaxed Saturday morning. Or she was until her plumbing clogged.

“I’m here to fix your clogged pipe,” I say.

She grabs the lapels near her neck and balls them up in her fist while giving me a funny look.

“I didn’t call a plumber,” she says.

“Oh. Maybe your landlord did?”

Now she looks at me like I’ve just said something ridiculous and offensive. “Iownthis house.”

“Of course. Sorry. Maybe I have the wrong address,” I say even though I double-checked the house number before I stepped out of my truck.

“You must,” the lady says, and then she clicks the door shut.

At least she didn’t slam it.

I turn on my heel, trying to decide if I should start knocking on doors to see who called me. Then I see him.

Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man.

HR rep extraordinaire.

He has the nerve to lean against my truck with his arms crossed under the protective branches of the giant oaks. When our eyes meet, he waves and then refolds his Popeye-sized forearms.

I’m not jealous. I like my forearms.

But this guy tried to steal my girlfriend. Or he was vying for her while I was taking forever to make up my own dumb mind.

Seeing Christopher feels like the pop of a champagne bottle. My feelings for Sarah come pouring back. I feel protective. Territorial. Just like Sarah was in my dream.

Surely Christopher didn’t come here to throw down. Or maybe he did. If so, he probably has the upper hand with those muscles, but I’m not going to back down.

I descend the porch steps and head to my truck.

“Hey,” I say when I’m in comfortable earshot.