Page 61 of Error Handling
“Donuts make me feel weak.”
She lowers her chin to look me square in the eye.
I pat my stomach. “Celiac. The runs.”
“Oh.”
My answer doesn’t seem to satisfy her, but she lets it go and begins flipping through the catalog.
A tired-looking woman wearing a paint-coated pair of jeans walks up behind us. The paint looks fresh. Smells fresh too. I hope she put a drop cloth on her car seats.
“I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone to choose your cabinets while I help the lady behind you,” Jack says.
I watch the corners of Sarah’s lips rise.
“Just decide what you want and call it in when you know your dimensions,” Jack finishes, before stepping to the side and beckoning the tired lady forward.
The lady starts ranting about how the paint guy didn’t secure the lid on her gallon of Ocean Blue, and it spilled all over her and onto her car seats.
“Whoah,” I say. “How about we move over here?” I motion for Sarah to join me beside a rack of miniature license plates featuring first names in the order of the alphabet.
Sarah moves to step off the milk crate and it teeters. In a millisecond, I’m back by her side, grabbing her by the waist and gently lowering her feet to the floor. When I let go, my body remembers every contour of hers...the tiny waist, the gentle swell of her hips, the feeling of her against my T-shirt as I momentarily held her close.
When she’s safely grounded, she looks up—no longer taller than I am—and blinks. I sense she’s mapping the contours of my body in her mind also. It’s the first time in my life that I wish I’d spent more time in the gym lifting weights.
Christopher Fonseca’s pecs are so perky he practically needs a bra.
Christopher.
I quickly push thoughts of my competition out of my mind. And then I push away thoughts of me being in any kind of competition whatsoever. I’m just here to buy what we need to fix her apartment.
After we both recover from the close contact, I start flipping through the catalog. I know what I’m after, but if Sarah wants to paint them, I’ll have to opt for unfinished.
“This is what I was thinking. Something basic.” I point to a simple, raised-panel door.
Sarah nods. “It matches the uppers, but I was thinking we should paint them white and then use a natural stain up top.”
“If you want white...” I flip a page and show her an identical door with a white finish.
“Perfect,” she says.
I’m not sold on the two-toned cabinets. I’ll have to run it by her landlord. Not that I suppose the guy is an interior decorator, I just don’t want to make anyone mad.
I take photos of the cabinets I think we’ll need and then I’ll compare them to my measurements. If I need to make any adjustments, Jack will help me over the phone.
“That was easy,” Sarah says. “See? I’m not high maintenance.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her. “Who said you were?”
“Next to you, anyone would feel high maintenance. You’re so calm and cool.”
People have been telling me this all my life, but I’ve never understood why. My insides always feel noisy and garbled. I can’t stay focused on one thing when ten other things are vying for my attention. I’m no counselor, and I’ve never been to one, but I suspect all the yelling I received as a kid for my forgetfulness taught me to appear put together on the outside. I’m good at fooling people.
“It’s an act,” I say.
Sarah purses her lips and studies my face. “You’re a good actor.”
I shrug. “I have lots of practice. Anyway, I guess we’re good to go then.” I toss the catalog onto the counter.