Page 21 of Error Handling
Kahlil’s jaw drops. “Forget everything I just said. You need to hop on the first plane down there.” He descends the ladder. “I mean, I’d miss you, but that’s a wad of cash. Can you put my name in the pot?”
“Sure. If you want me to.”
We move the ladder out of the way and pull the table back to its rightful position. After we move our equipment to the next burned-out light fixture, Kahlil climbs the ladder. “I’m just joking you,” he says. “Kiara starts kindergarten next year and she’d kill me if I took her away from her best friend.”
Eighty thousand dollars a year would fast-track my plan to save enough money to buy a fixer-upper, remodel it, and have enough left over for living expenses. I want to have enough in the bank to survive a year, during which I’ll live in the house and do all the remodeling myself.
“So, what about this other Sarah?” Kahlil asks. “Was she hot?”
Very. But I’m forcing myself to forget her. “We had a nice chat, but as soon as she found out I was the wrong Chris, she ran.”
“What did you say to her?”
“She did most of the talking.”
“Maybe that’s why. You need to work on those conversation skills.”
“I’m a good conversationalist,” I say. When I’m not nervous.
“Sure. And cats like swimming.”
“Some do.”
“Good conversationalists are truthful, forthcoming, honest, vulnerable.” Kahlil counts them off with his fingers.
“Did you read that in your medieval etiquette manual?”
“No. I’m just smart. And observant. As soon as I brought up the other Sarah, you did that crooked smile thing. She’s hot, isn’t she?”
I rub my mouth.
“Well?” Kahlil prods.
“There’s more to a woman than her looks.”
“She’s hot.”
“I hardly got the chance to get to know her.”
“You can’t lie to me, Chris. I see right through you.”
“She was pretty.”
“And the truth shall set you free. Hallelujah. Praise Jesus.” Kahlil uses his best fire and brimstone preacher voice, and then he goes about quietly and quickly switching out two more bulbs—the last two in the conference room. “Did you get her number?” he says after he clicks in the final bulb.
I purse my lips and stare at the American flag on the far wall.
“You didn’t get her number.” Kahlil sighs.
He descends the ladder, stops at the bottom, and rests a hand on my shoulder. He looks me in the eye, his mouth open to say something. Instead, he shifts his focus to the floor, shakes his head, and gives my shoulder a firm pat. “On to the next room.”
Kahlil folds the ladder and anchors a rung on his shoulder. I grab the work cart and maneuver it through the tables. We enter the hallway and head left into the main foyer.
“Chris?”
I turn. Sarah Wilkins stands at the mouth of the wide stairwell. She’s wearing skinny jeans, a lime green sweater, and a matching green raincoat. The rain has made her medium-length hair frizzy in parts and flat in others.
My body seems to lose a few pounds, like I’ve stepped onto the moon. The blood flows through my veins rapidly, less encumbered by gravity. “Sarah,” I reply.