Page 46 of Error Handling
I chuckle and go back to painting. It will take time to process my emotions. In the meantime, I need to be productive.
My tree doesn’t feel finished, but I have no idea what it needs, so I add a few carefully placed strokes to the tune of bang, bang, bang as Chris pulls up the tack strips.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe my tree is “perfect” the way it is. Perfect in my dictionary means done. Nothing I ever paint is perfect, unlike Luna’s paintings.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Chris wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to make some noise.
I regard my painting for a moment. Set my paintbrush down. Look at my painting some more. Pick up the brush and hover the bristles over the cobalt blue paint.
Bang! Bang!
I flinch with each loud thud of his hammer, or whatever tool he’s using to beat my living room floor into submission. The noise doesn’t disrupt my creative flow. I’ve never been in a flow state while I’m painting. For me, painting requires analysis, constant second-guessing, and endless self-doubt. Chris and his noise are keeping me from doing those things. Maybe I can’t paint while he’s here.
What should I do then? I can’t hide in my bedroom. That would be weird. Maybe I could make cookies. But I’m not sure the scents of warm chocolate chips and wet dog would pair well, and I don’t have chocolate chips. Or flour. I never bake.
If I offer Chris some help—because this is the idea growing in my mind—I will not act like a shy, starry-eyed schoolgirl. There will be no making out with Chris. I need to push that thought out of my mind, and with it the whirlwind of hormones will quiet enough to allow me to act normal around him.
All I can do is remove my smock, approach Chris, and hope for the best.
He’s already cut the hallway carpet into manageable sections and removed the pieces when I join him. Now he’s intently slicing a long strip of wet living room carpet.
“Hey,” I say.
He spins around.
“It’s just me.” I steel myself against his adorable, melancholy eyes. I refuse to let them reduce me to mush again.
“You scared me.” He rakes a hand through his hair. The strands land like he just had a blowout. “I thought you were trying not to ruin your painting.”
“I think you’re right. It’s done. Leaving it alone is the best way to assure I don’t overmix. I have a knack for mixing shades of brown when I overanalyze my brush strokes.”
“The banging was bothering you, wasn’t it?”
“A little.” I demonstrate how much with a sliver of air between my thumb and forefinger.
“This shouldn’t take too long,” Chris says.
My heart thuds as I watch his lips form the words, but I quietly manage my breath to calm it.
“I just need to get this wet stuff out of here to get rid of the smell,” he continues.
“Even Dolly is offended by it,” I say. “She keeps running around the living room trying to find the other dog that moved in.” I jab my thumb toward the hallway. “I’m going to check out your work over there.”
“Let me know if it passes inspection.”
Chris seems nervous too. Maybe I’m imagining it. With looks like his, he can have any girl. I don’t want to be any girl. Just another groupie pining over his luscious locks. What if he went on the blind date with the other Sarah, and now they’re dating? They probably are. Chris probably goes for pointy-nosed girls as tall as ostriches.
“Okay. I’m going over there,” I say after I realize I’ve just spent too much time lingering.
He made quick work of the tack strips in the hall. Crumbled, pointy bits of wood sit in a pile waiting to be discarded by someone wearing protective gloves. I have gardening gloves from my failed attempt at beautifying the front yard, but those nails will poke right through the fabric.
“Do you have another pair of work gloves?” I holler.
Chris’s banging stops. “In my truck.”
“What were you planning to do with this mess?”