Page 47 of Error Handling

“Haul it away in my truck.”

“Then what will you do with it?”

“It disappears down the magic portal in my truck.”

I laugh. It helps dispel some of my nervousness. I poke my head around the corner. Chris is doing the half-smile thing.

“I don’t believe you,” I say.

“I’ll show you.” He hooks his pry bar in his toolbelt and motions for me to lead the way.

I know nothing about trucks, have no interest in make or model, thus I only observe the obvious. Chris’s faded red truck is what I believe people call a “beater.” It looks like someone beat on it with a large stick. Rust rims the wheel wells, and the roof looks like it survived a hailstorm. An old, dingy truck cap completes the look.

“Wow,” is all I can manage.

“Trucks like this are in style now.”

I cast him a skeptical look.

“I know, right? This is an ’82 Chevy and if I sold it, odds are whoever bought it would leave it as is.”

“How much could you fetch for it?”

He looks amused by my comment. “Fetch? I think you’ve been living in the south too long.”

“Or I’ve been playing with Dolly too much. Fetch is fun to say. Fetch. Fetch. Fetch,” I repeat, feeling the word on my lips and tongue.

He tilts his head and grins. “I honestly don’t know how much this thing would fetch. I haven’t checked the market value in a while.”

“I bet with a magic portal it would fetch a lot more.”

“Oh. About that.” He rounds his truck and opens his passenger side door with a screech of old metal. “There’s no portal. I lied.” He digs behind the seat and then returns holding a pair of worn leather gloves. “I have to manhandle the carpet myself and throw it into a dumpster.”

“I can help.”

“I would never ask you to do that.” He hands me the gloves.

We stand chest to chest, less than a foot apart. I feel a tide of those dormant hormones rising, threatening to steal my ability to talk and think clearly.

“You don’t have to help,” he says.

“I want to.” I smile, an attempt to ease my nerves. He doesn’t return the smile but studies my face intently. The wave of hormones inside my body crests. It’s my cue to exit.

I head toward the front door. “I’m going to move that spikey pile of sticks.” He can’t see my wide eyes or my heaving chest. That’s by design.

I hurry to the back hallway where I can hide the flaming blush in my cheeks. I hear Chris come in behind me, his work boots making muffled thumps against the carpet. The floor looks clean enough, so I slide down the wall and sit to gather my wits for the second time this evening. Chris seems to have a knack for making me come undone.

As I calm my thoughts, I notice a loose piece of vinyl. Whoever decorated the house previously glued down faux-brick vinyl. Aflap has come unglued in the corner revealing the wood floor underneath. Who in their right mind glues vinyl to hardwood?

I have an idea. If the vinyl is in the living room too, it might have protected the wood from Wednesday’s influx of water. Realizing I’m risking another embarrassing session of blushing, I call for Chris.

“Yeah,” he answers.

“Can you come look at something?” I tug on the flap of vinyl and more comes loose. Underneath are black spots of dried glue.

“Sure. What’s up?” He stands at the hall entrance.

“There’s hardwood flooring underneath the vinyl.”