Page 143 of Error Handling

“Hello?” That will show the criminals who’s boss.

The door opens and my heart spasms. Chris is standing in the opening in stained work clothes, his hair pulled back, a few strands loose that are brushing his cheeks as usual.

“What are you doing here?” I manage to say, despite my A-Fib.

He doesn’t say anything but beckons me inside. The chemical smell of wood stain is my first clue.

“Can I walk on this?” I ask looking down at the natural wood, a finish he and I had agreed upon. The wood grain pops now and looks fantastic.

“Sure,” Chris says.

My mouth drops open when I enter the living room. All my furnishings are back in place and a new area rug, one I didn’t choose but works perfectly in the space, adorns the center of the room.

“Did you pick this out?” I ask.

“I got a good deal on it a couple weeks ago. Sorry I didn’t run it by you, but I was pretty sure it would work.”

“It looks amazing.” I drop my bags and my keys on the couch and turn to take in my finished kitchen. “How in the world did you get all this done?”

“I know people who are handy with tools.”

My eyes take everything in—the new vinyl flooring, the farmhouse sink, the two-toned cabinets, just like I ordered.

I gasp and run into the kitchen. “You installed new uppers!” I say as I run my hand along the traditional raised-panel doors.

“I didn’t have time to refinish the old ones. And I didn’t want to. So...”

“Did my landlord approve it?”

“I may have thrown in some of my own cash.”

“Chris!”

“I can’t leave a job unfinished.”

I turn to look at him. He’s leaning against the wall near the front door like he might slip out, slip away. A question burns in my mind, something I need to ask him, but I’m not ready for the answer. First, I take in his slender frame, tall but not too tall, toned but not flashy, gorgeous hair that begs for my fingers to comb it, that half-smile, even though he’s looking very serious at the moment. He looks tired.

I wonder how late he stayed up last night working on all this.

Here’s the question I need to ask: “So, is this it? You finished the job and now you’re moving on?”

Chris furrows his brow, and my heart sinks.

“You never answered my text,” I add.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks at the floor that he beautifully refinished while I was eating steak and garlic bread at Luna’s. “I don’t want to start over,” he says.

My heart can’t sink any lower. “Okay,” I manage to squeak out.

He looks at me. A half-smile adorns his face as he approaches. When he’s next to me, he reaches out and runs his thumb along my cheek, wiping a tear.

I didn’t know I was crying.

So much for “no more tears.”

“I don’t want to start over,” he says, “because I like where we are. And I don’t want to forget where we’ve been.”

“I—” I blink away another tear. “I don’t know whether to hug you or punch you.”