Page 141 of Error Handling

I squint at my foe, at his carefully arranged “messy” hair and his jeans with a crease down the center of each leg. Who irons their jeans?

“It’s all good,” I say finally. I grab his hand and give it a firm shake.

He accompanies his equally firm shake with a grim expression like someone just died, and then he turns and heads up the sidewalk.

I watch him walk away, blinking at his back, still in shock that he had the nerve (or the class?) to meet me here. I’m not sure what a sixth-month subscription for At Your Service costs these days, but last I checked it wasn’t cheap. The guy’s either the most gracious person I’ve ever met or the biggest fool.

A Carolina Chickadee’s rhythmic chirp distracts me. I look up and see it perched on a branch several yards down. After three years, I’m still amazed by Charleston’s wildlife. Sometimes I forget I’m in the city. Sometimes I forget what I’m doing. Like now.

Then I remember. I need to comb the neighborhood to see who called me for the plumbing issue.

Then I remember I’m an idiot. Christopher pinged me. There is no clogged pipe. I’m back to having an entire day with nothing to do but try not to think about the girl that Christopher just handed over to me, like the prize after a gentleman’s duel.

I don’t know what to do with that, so I let it hang in the air until I’m ready to grab it again. In the meantime, distraction is key.

Maybe someone will ping me with real work.

My truck door creaks as I pull it open, the smell of aging vinyl hitting me in the face as usual. When I’m behind the steering wheel, I pull up At Your Service on my phone, make sure I’m listed as “available,” and swipe the app closed. Before tossing the phone into the passenger seat, I pull up the Messages app.

Can we start over?

Two people can’t really start over. The memories are still there. The baggage.

What’s done can’t be undone.

Chapter 23

Sarah

It’s Saturday morning, and all I can say is, Luna’s a life saver. When she opened her door to me last night, I immediately cried on her shoulder despite my usual distaste for unnecessary physical contact. I guess it was necessary in this case. And I guess I was crying to make up for all those times in middle school and beyond when I didn’t cry over boys. There must be a quota of lovesick tears you have to shed before you turn thirty. I have a huge backlog, and my time to spend them is running short. Cue teardrop tsunami.

After I calmed down, we DoorDashed Panda Express. I was famished given I hadn’t been able to stomach Mary’s perfectly prepared fried cod. We talked about my dating disaster for over two hours, and she assured me I’m not the worst person on the planet for kissing two different guys in the span of two days.

I’ve been wandering around her apartment in my slippers since ten o’clock this morning, and she hasn’t asked me when I plan to leave. That’s how great she is.

At one thirty, she says, “We’re going grocery shopping.” I welcome the prospect of following Luna around the aisles like a sad puppy.

We begin our trip to the grocery store with a stop at the downtown Joe and Go. I eat two chocolate chip bagels slathered with generous portions of cream cheese. Like every other female human, I eat carbs when I’m upset. I also don’t care if I gain a pound or two because I usually gain in my chest first.

We take our time grocery shopping, and I splurge on expensive sirloin steaks. I eat meat when I’m upset too. Let’s face it. I just eat. Luna decides to invite a couple of people we know from the painting department over for dinner, and she cooks. Anytime I touch steaks, they turn to leather, but Luna has a knack. Her steaks are juicy, tender, with the perfect amount of pink in the middle. We have garlic bread on the side for our carb-fix, and generous bowls of ice cream for dessert.

I briefly tell them about my failed attempt at love, but I don’t feel like talking about myself. Instead, we chat about school, about sandy-haired, blue-eyed Professor Martin. Most of my fellow female students pine over him, but I don’t get it. One of his nostrils is bigger than the other. Not just a little. Noticeably. He also has eczema on his arms that he tries to hide with long-sleeved shirts, but sometimes the cuffs ride up, and I swear, I’m not normal. Why do I notice stuff that no one else does? That’s why Chris is so great. He’s perfect. And I ruined it.

I keep my thoughts about Chris and Professor Martin to myself, and we agree to watchThe Notebook, which would be a great movie if it didn’t make me feel like an even bigger loser for not being able to keep the only real guy I’ve ever fallen for.

Luna looks at me apologetically after everyone leaves and admits maybe it wasn’t the right movie for my circumstances. I’m not sure what would be. Maybe something from Pixar, but even some of those can get deep. I cried at the end ofInside Out.

We sleep late on Sunday, and I piddle around her apartment until I start feeling like I’m imposing. My schoolwork also begins to weigh on me. I have three Charleston trees left to butcher—I mean, paint.

With resignation, I meet Luna at her kitchen island and tell her my plans to leave.

“You don’t have to go,” she says. “Stay as long as you like. I don’t want you to be home alone crying.”

“I think I’m cried out.”

“That’s what I thought when Eric dumped me.”

I shoot her a look.