Page 28 of Error Handling
I nod. I see how big the checks are that my dad sends me every quarter. It only compounds my guilt that I stuck with a degree that is a dead-end vocationally. For the thousandth time, I mentally kicked myself for not switching to a graphic arts degree.
“I just do it on the side,” Christopher continues. “I have a little part-time business where I do weddings and family portraits. Want to see my website?”
“Sure.”
He grabs his phone, punches in the URL, and hands me the phone.
The site is simple but professional, with two main links that navigate to his portfolio of family photos and the other to his wedding photos. He has an eye for balance and a skill for subtle photo manipulation.
“Wow. These are great, Christopher.” I hand his phone back to him.
“Thanks. It’s fun and it gives me a little extra play money.”
I take a drink and then set my cup down with a thud. “I have an idea. What does your schedule look like? For photography, I mean.”
“It’s pretty steady on the weekends, but I don’t overbook because I like to have a life too.”
“I need headshots for my senior exhibit. Part of our assignment is to choose someone to take them for us. I wasgoing to put in a request with the Photography Department, but I’d rather have you take them. I would be a paying customer, of course.”
He looks both surprised and pleased. “Sure. When do you need them by?”
“My exhibit is in April, but I need to advertise prior to that, so in the next week or two? I’ve already put it off longer than I should. That’s what happens when you’re in denial, I guess.”
“In denial that you’re about to graduate?”
I nod. “After May, Daddy’s no longer footing the bill.”
Christopher’s expression turns sympathetic. After a moment of contemplation, he says, “I think maybe you’re being too hard on yourself. I’d like to see your paintings sometime to give you a second opinion.”
Is he asking for a second date?
“Okay. But promise not to laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Just promise.”
Somehow Christopher’s kind expression becomes even more kind. “I wouldn’t laugh at you.”
I feel a spark in my belly, like his comment and his delicious expression are flaming arrows that ignite something deep within. Such a benign sentence, and yet he made it sound so intimate. “Thanks,” I say.
When we leave Joe and Go, the sun has long ago settled beneath the horizon and the temperature has tumbled even farther. It’s cold, even by a northerner’s standards. I tug my moto jacket tighter as Christopher and I say our goodbyes. We agree to text about my upcoming photoshoot, allowing South Carolina’s weather to determine the best time to be outdoors with a camera. He walks me to my car and hovers while I unlock it. Is he waiting for a kiss? My nerves spike at the thought.
He keeps his face a comfortable distance from mine. Relief floods my arms. Tonight is not the night to relax my comfort zone. Christopher might be kissable. I haven’t fully committed to the idea. And he had sauerkraut, so...
I close the door on him, smile, wave, back out of the parking spot, throw the car into drive. And then my reliable Nissan Cube sputters and dies. I turn the key in the ignition, but nothing happens. The car has never so much as hiccupped. Now, without warning, without so much as a sneeze, it just stops working.
Christopher runs to the driver’s side window. I roll it down. “I think there’s a problem,” I say.
“Did it just die on you?”
I nod.
“Do you want me to try?” he asks.
“Sure.” I trade places with Christopher.
After a few failed attempts, he leans back and taps his index finger on the steering wheel. “It’s not the battery. I think it might be the fuel injector. How old is this?”