Page 56 of Error Handling
Chris banged and thudded in the kitchen the entire time I was working. I hear the sawing and tearing of wood and fear what I might find if I go to investigate. But maybe if I tell him I’ve changed my mind about restoring the hardwood, his mood will lighten.
I set down my putty knife and head into the kitchen. Chris is knee-deep into his project. He has removed a large section of subflooring and is standing in the crawlspace while he works on removing another rotten section of wood.
“That’s quite a project,” I say.
He looks up and slides off his safety glasses. “I fixed the sink.”
“And you broke the floor.”
“It’s worse than I originally thought. I may have to replace most of the kitchen. Some of the rot might be under the cabinets, but Gary wants me to replace those anyway. I’m surprised you never fell through.”
“I left him a message that I noticed some soft spots, but he never got back with me.”
Dolly whines in her crate.
“I know, sweet girl,” I call. “But I can’t have you running around in the crawlspace.”
Chris smiles. His features appear softer now like he took his anger out on the floor, and now he’s back to his normal self. I’m not brave enough to ask him what was wrong.
“How’s it going in there?” he asks.
“Slowly. I think I’m ready to give up.”
“Already?”
“Yeah, I’m not making any headway. At the rate I’m going, I’ll finish about five years from now.”
He props his lower back with one hand and rubs his forehead with the other. “We may have to apply heat to loosen the glue. Do you have an iron?”
“Do I ever iron my clothes?”
He seems stumped by my question.
“I don’t,” I say. “I make sure I don’t buy clothes that require an iron, so the answer is no. But I do have a hair dryer.”
“I don’t know if that will work. Let me see how far you’ve gotten.” He climbs out of the crawlspace and follows me into the hallway.
We both kneel where I was working, and then it happens. Again. The proximity of his body sends waves of warmth through mine, like the air between us has turned to liquid and I can barely tread water. In truth, I want to sink into the depths and rest there for ages.
Chris mumbles something about the glue becoming stronger over time and then he locks eyes with me. He quiets mid-sentence. We remain like that for a moment, our breathing the only sound as I nearly drown in his gaze.
Then Chris clears his throat and stands. “Um.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets.
I stand also. I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks and don’t bother to try to hide it.
“I feel like there’s something going on between us,” Chris says.
My body turns to jelly. I catch myself with the wall.
“I feel it,” Chris continues. “And I think you do too.”
I nod.
“But I feel like I need to tell you—I’m moving to Puerto Rico.”
If disappointment had a three-dimensional form, it would be a heavy granite rock, roughly quarried with jagged edges and sharp points.
“Maybe. Probably,” Chris continues.