Page 16 of Error Handling
“You saidChriswas five foot nine or ten.”
“That’s a guesstimate,” I say.
“Your blind date, Christopher Fonseca, is five foot four inches. That’s half a foot difference. You didn’t notice the discrepancy?”
“Christopher is five foot four? Really? That’s short.”
“You’re five foot four,” Cassie deadpans.
“I mean, it’s short for a guy.”
“We’ve already had this discussion. You agreed to go out with him.”
Cassie sits in a private nook around the corner. I sit at the receptionist desk, which is immediately accessible to any customers who might walk in, although not many do, especiallysince Cassie contracted a small development company to design an iOS and Android compatible ticketing app. Cassie’s second venture, MatchAI, is totally virtual. I don’t have to handle those customers in person, but I do get to field customer service calls along with a contracted company in Omaha.
To my right are two glassed-in conference rooms, and behind me, a short hallway leads to a bathroom and a small breakroom, where coffee is currently percolating. The inviting scent offers a warm and cozy respite on this rainy Monday.
“What did Christopher say when you told him about the mix-up?” Cassie asks.
“Why would I do that?”
“You did tell him what happened, didn’t you? You told him why you stood him up?”
“Why would I do that?” I repeat.
I hear the low rumble of casters against the natural wood floor. Cassie walks over to me, her chunky heels thudding against the old planks. She stops under the industrial ceiling fan. “Tell me you called him. Texted him. Anything,” she says, hands on hips, and eyes bugged,
I reach for my mouse and wake up my MacBook. I was playing Animal Crossing on my phone, but now I feel the mysterious urge to immerse myself in work. “Um.”
“You are texting him right now.” Cassie’s chin-length brown hair shimmies as she admonishes me.
She crosses her arms and manages a motherly expression even though she’s childless—the same expression my mother made when I was five and smeared Estée Lauder lipstick all over my face, three tubes worth, breaking all three in the process.
“I was in the middle of texting him when I ran into Chris,” I say. “I guess I forgot to hit send.”
“And after you left Chris sitting on the bench, you didn’t think to send Christopher a text?” Cassie throws up her hands andturns toward the two-hundred-year-old brick wall as if its age might impart some wisdom.
“Well, he never textedme. I figured we were just doing the thing where we pretended each other didn’t exist. You know, to make it less awkward.”
“My aunt and my mom’s exterminator are getting married in two months. Trust me, I have a knack, and you and Christopher are destined for each other.”
“Clearly not.”
“You’ve texted him, like, three times. How can you know you won’t fall madly in love with Christopher when you see him?”
I spin my chair ninety degrees and face my boss. “I know because the odds of me running into another perfect guy that I might actually want to kiss is probably like one in eighty million.”
Cassie cocks her head. She taps her toe while surveying me curiously. “Whoah, whoah, whoah,” she says finally. She holds her palms out like she’s trying to stop a stampeding bull. “Anotherperfect guy?”
The blood drains from my face. I made a pact with myself not to tell anyone about my internal, walnut-chewing squirrel. Everyone who knows me on a girl-pal level would either think I’ve gone crazy, or they would act like Cassie is acting now—like she’s at a splash park, standing over one of those fountains that spray cold water into your nether regions.
As the implications of my word choice settle into Cassie’s mind, her smile grows wider. If a human could boil, she’s doing it, bubbling over with excitement. “Chris was—I mean,isperfect? Why didn’t you tell me? Did you have...feelings?”
“Um,” I say. “I’m sure there’s something wrong with him. He—He’s too attractive. He probably has groupies.”
“You had feelings.”
I blush.