Page 14 of Error Handling
He frowns and shrugs. “Nope. I don’t wear suits.”
“I don’t think HR reps wear suits. Probably sweaters. Sweater vests. IZOD shirts? I don’t know. Anyway. That’s odd.” How did Cassie get the details so wrong? And do handymen make a living wage? Maybe he does live in a van by the river.
“Are you one of those people who pulls a tiny house behind a truck everywhere you go?” I ask.
“No. I’ve considered it, but I’m in an apartment on the edge of downtown.”
I purse my lips. Not because of his last comment, but because the details aren’t adding up. He’s taller than I am. He’s not an HR rep.
“What brought you to Charleston?” Chris says, interrupting my discombobulation.
“Oh. I’m a painting student at College of Charleston. I—”
Chris’s phone buzzes. He pads his back pocket. “Sorry, I should have turned this thing off.” He pulls out the phone and studies the screen for a moment. “Um. Uh...”
“What is it?” I ask.
“I just got a text. From...Sarah.”
I blink. “Sarah who?”
“Sarah, my blind date.”
My cheeks flash hot despite the chilly breeze. Things are starting to make sense. His height. His handymanism. The pieces of the puzzle lock together, revealing an unfortunate picture.
“What’s your last name?” I manage.
“Butcher. Chris Butcher.”
I jump off the bench like it just shocked my behind. “You’re not Christopher Fonseca.”
Chris looks surprised. “You’re not Sarah Ramsey.”
“I’m Sarah Wilkins.” I throw my palms against my forehead, spin in a circle, and then stop to face him again. “This is a mistake. This isn’t a date,” I say, wagging my finger between us. “We’re not on a date.”
Chris’s surprised expression devolves back to his normal sad face. “I guess not.”
“How did I make this mistake. It’s—I stood up my date.”
“Maybe he’s still inside,” Chris offers.
“I’m not going in there now!”
I meant to text the real Chris and tell him I was running late, and in fact, that’s what I was doing when I bumped into fake Chris. And fake Chris was so...perfect...I pounced instead of asking him the reasonable questions, like, why are you so tall, and what’s your last name?
My most embarrassing moment is no longer the time I was supposed to sing a solo during the Battle Hymn of the Republic during sixth grade choir. I froze behind the microphone and gaped at the audience for half a minute. The choir director didn’t even try to prompt me or encourage the choir to start singing. She let me stand there like a blank-eyed idiot.
Just like I am now, gaping, staring blank-eyed at fake Chris. “This is so embarrassing.” He seems like a stranger now, unvetted by Cassie, the byproduct of a rip in the space-time continuum.
Chris stands. “I guess I better try to smooth things over with Sarah. I mean, my Sarah. She seems pretty ticked.”
My Sarah.I’m not Chris’s Sarah. I don’t have the privilege of knowing his cell number like theotherSarah.
“Yeah. I guess we both have some explaining to do,” I say.
Chris nods.
“Okay, well...” I jab my thumb in the direction of the parking garage. “I guess...”