Page 142 of Error Handling

“Oh, sorry,” she says. “It’s not the same. Eric and I dated for three years.”

Wow. I dated Chris for a few weeks and I’m this wrecked? Were we even dating? I still don’t know. I’m a fall-hard, fall-fast kind of girl, I guess. Who knew? Something to file away for later. Hopefully, I’ll never need that file again. I mean, all hope isn’t lost, right? Chris and I might still have a chance.

He hasn’t responded to my text. Maybe he never will.

Instead of faking that I feel all right, and not just all right, but perky, I let my shoulders slump.

“You really like him,” Luna says. She clutches her hot mug of cinnamon herbal tea.

“You’re just now getting that?” I don’t say it to be mean, it’s just that I’ve talked her ear off about him. I assumed she knew.

“No. I get it,” Luna says. “I’m sorry.”

I sigh.

She sighs.

“Are you going to call Christopher?” she says.

I shake my head furiously. “No. I need to distance myself from Christopher. I want Chris to know he can trust me, and that means no more texts with Christopher. No photoshoots. No touching knees and definitely no kissing.”

“I think Chris is being too hard on you.”

Maybe he is, but I’ve never had a guy I thought I was going to marry flake out on me and tell me “Oh, by the way, I’ve been cheating on you.” I can’t even imagine the ways that might mess with a person’s head. I could have been more sensitive to Chris’s past.

I tell Luna I’ll keep her posted on my relationship situation, and I thank her for graciously allowing me to sleep on her couch for two nights. Of course, she says, “Anytime,” and I know she means it.

I dump my bags in the back seat of The Cube before sliding behind the steering wheel. Traffic is light on a Sunday afternoon, and I make it home in fifteen minutes. My apartment’s a mess with reminders of Chris, and I’m still not ready to face them. I’m almost ready. Just not quite yet.

I park in front of my house. Instead of going inside, I pull out my phone and look at the last text I sent Chris while contemplating whether I should send him another one. Would it seem too desperate? If I called him, would he answer?

Who’s going to install my farmhouse sink? That wasourfarmhouse sink. It wasourproject. For all I care now, Gary can install whatever old carpet he finds in the back alley.

Actually, no.

I don’t want stinky carpet.

I want nice carpet. And nice floors and a nice sink and cabinets that don’t smell rotten. And if Chris won’t finish the job, I’ll find someone who will.

Or I’ll do it myself.

Yes! I’ll finish my apartment and it will look fabulous.

I can do this. It’s not the end of the world. My ovaries still have so much to discover, with or without Chris. He was my handyman. My very handsome handyman who I happened to make out with a couple of times. Sure, he was perfect, but he’snot the only guy on the planet who knows his way around a girl’s plumbing.

That’s it. No. More. Tears.

Buck up, buttercup. Your crochet hook is waiting.

I drop my phone back into my purse, grab my keys and step out of the car, lug my bags up the front walk and stick the key in before noticing that the door is already unlocked.

“No,” I whisper. Did I forget to lock my door when I left a week ago? It’s possible given the state I was in with the panic attack and trying to make sure my mom didn’t die of heatstroke.

What if I was robbed?

What if the robbers are in my house right now?

I push open the door with a creak.