Page 57 of Error Handling
My mind works on refining the granite, rolling it over and over, smoothing the surfaces and dulling the protrusions, so it becomes easier and softer to handle. The internet is a thing. Zoom is a thing. Puerto Rico has communications services. Does he plan to live out the rest of his days there? If so, that might be a problem. But if it’s just a quick stop on his way to something else, it might be workable.
“I don’t know when,” Chris says. “But it could be soon. Plus, I have baggage.”
“I have luggage too. In my bedroom closet. It’s a suitcase and carryon set with casters.”
Chris laughs and I join him. Why are we getting so deep when we barely know each other?
But he chose to get deep, which means he has feelings for me. I haven’t been imagining it. And now, what ought to have disappointed me buoys me. Chris Butcher, the handyman, hasfeelingsfor me.
“Do you want to go on a ghost tour tonight?” I ask.
He looks surprised.
“I work for a ghost tour company and we’re auditioning a new tour guide tonight. It’s late though, you’d be up until two a.m.”
Chris crosses his arms and regards me curiously. “You’re okay, then, that this can’t happen? You and me, I mean?”
I’m not so sure about that, but I’m willing to play along. “We hardly know each other, Chris.”
He ponders my statement for a moment and then shrugs. “Okay.”
“Okay we hardly know each other, or okay you’ll go?”
“Both.”
I smile and he returns it.
“Until then...” His tone means he’s back to business. “We need to figure out a faster way to remove this vinyl. I need to go toLeeman’s to pick up some sheets of OSB. We could see if we can find something to loosen up this glue.”
“I’m game.” Any excuse to spend more time with Chris Butcher, gorgeous handyman and melter of hearts.
Chapter 11
Chris
I met my ex, Allison Bridger, at the beginning of my junior year at Blackville Heights High School, in Blackville, Missouri. I still remember what she was wearing the first time I saw her: white skinny jeans and a flowing top patterned with large tropical flowers. She wore her hair in a high ponytail that emphasized the smoothness of her lightly tanned skin. Out of my league, I thought.
My initial assessment was bolstered by the fact that she became involved in every club and organization, and that her class list included AP English, Calculus, Honors Current Events. My class list included Auto Mechanics, Drafting, Building Trades.
Our small rural school had a thriving Ag Hall, where I spent most of my time. The Ag Hall was its own microcosm, a haven for kids like me who couldn’t seem to “play school” like everyone else. If I planned my schedule right, I could spend most of my day there, avoiding the honors students, and therefore pretending that the bureaucracy of teachers, administrators, andschool counselors didn’t view me as a failure for not toeing the college prep line.
I still managed to do poorly in my classes. Getting good grades required turning in homework, which I couldn’t seem to remember to do, nor was I particularly interested in remembering. I had better things to do, like stealing glances at Allison Bridgers during study hall.
She was always head down, focused on her work or lost in a book with some archaic artwork on the cover. Or rarely, she traded notes with her best friend who sat two seats over, and they both giggled about whatever inside joke they had penned on the three-hole-punched, college-ruled paper.
Somewhere in the recesses of my seventeen-year-old mind, I fantasized that they were talking about me—in a good way—that Allison was commenting positively about my looks, or that she shyly noticed I’d been stealing glances while she worked on her essay onThe Grapes of Wrath.
My immature fantasies weren’t entirely without basis. Every day, I passed her on my way to Algebra 2, and every day, we glanced at each other. As the year went on, our glances became bolder, combined with smiles and head nods. She didn’t smile at just anyone. She picked me out of the crowd, laid eyes on me, blushed lightly when our eyes met.
Those fleeting moments gave me the courage to ask her to prom. I staked out a spot on the benches just inside the front doors. Two days passed. Three days. On the fourth day, she looked at me, cocked her head, smiled, and I waved.
On the fifth day, I stood as she approached, and I said her name. It was the first time I said it aloud. I hadn’t even mentioned my crush to my best friend, not in the mood for the ribbing I’d receive for daring to harbor feelings for someone so popular. But I’d done it. I’d said it, and she stopped.
When I walked over, she tightened her grip on the straps of her backpack and regarded me with round blue eyes, her eyelids blinking like the shutter of a camera. She was taking mental pictures, storing them to reference later.
I felt keenly aware of my body, of each movement. Did I look ridiculous to her? An Ag kid approaching an honors student? Would she describe those mental pictures to her friend later? Would they laugh that I had the nerve to pose so ridiculously for my ultimate rejection?
I continued anyway, and I uttered the words, “Do you want to go to prom with me?”