Page 48 of Error Handling

He shrugs. “I would expect so. The houses around here were built in the 1930s.”

“If the vinyl runs into the living room, it may have protected the wood from water damage.”

Chris purses his lips like he knows where I’m headed, and he doesn’t want to follow. “There’s a pet pad under the carpet so not much water made it through anyway.” His tone falls at the end.

“You already know what I’m thinking.”

“The vinyl is glued down. We’d have to scrape it off and then sand away the glue. Plus, you never know what kind of stains you’re going to find.”

“Would refinishing the wood save Gary money?”

Chris comes beside me and slides down the wall. Our shoulders touch.

I never realized shoulders have so many sensitive nerve endings. I never want to move.

“It would save him some money,” Chris says, “but it would be a lot more work.”

He rests his forearms on his bent knees. His hands are square and sturdy and marked with small scars from his line of work. They look capable of heavy lifting as well as gentler tasks.

“How much work would it be if I helped?” I ask.

He tucks a curl behind his ear and looks at me. “How bad do you want it?”

“If it would save Gary money and it would preserve the history of this house, I call it a win-win.”

“You can help with the scraping, but I’ll take care of the sanding.”

“You don’t think I’m strong enough?”

He looks down at my biceps, which are peeking from my sleeves. “I feel like this is a trick question.”

“It’s not.”

“Are you a die-hard feminist?”

“No.”

“Okay, then yes. I think you are strong enough, but I think the sander might get away from you and you might gouge the wood.”

I nod. “Probably.”

He leans his head against the wall. I watch his Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallows. We’re silent a moment, a comfortable silence, though still heavily charged. We continue to allow our shoulders to touch.

“Do you play guitar?” Chris asks.

The randomness of his comment confuses me for a moment, and then I remember he just rearranged my furniture, including my old guitar.

“No. That’s my dad’s guitar,” I say. “He used to play in a folk band in college. It was stuck in his attic, and I liked it so I asked him if I could have it for display. Why? Do you play?”

“I try.” He shows me the tips of his fingers where callouses have formed from pressing against the strings. “I’ve written a few songs, but they’re dumb.”

I straighten and turn toward Chris. “I don’t know a lot about you, or about music, but I’m going to guess you’re being too hard on yourself.”

He laughs. “I’ve never been to school for music.”

“It doesn’t always make a difference. Trust me.”

“Do you sell your paintings?”