Page 62 of Error Handling

“We came for a heat gun,” Sarah says.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.” I could blame my constant state of forgetfulness, but right now, Sarah’s gaze is making it hard for me to think straight. She’s not looking at me in any certain way. A simple glance is all it seems to take.

“What about new vinyl for the kitchen? Should we pick that out?” she says.

I stuff my hands in my pockets. I will my brain to focus, but all I can think about is the feeling of her body next to mine. I want more of it.

“I was just going to choose something basic,” I say.

“There you go being basic again.”

She smiles at me and then takes off into the depths of the store. When I catch up with her, she’s contemplating the vinyl swatches.

“If you were you, which one would you choose?”

“I am me,” I say.

“What is ‘basic’ in Chris Butcher’s world?”

I stand in front of the spread of samples. There are several wood-look samples, which are an automatic no. If I was going to do the fake-wood look, I’d go with vinyl plank, and vinyl plank is too expensive.

There’s also a black and white checkered pattern—another hard no—and a small hexagonal tile pattern that only looks suitable for bathrooms. My eyes rest on a nondescript slate stone pattern. It’s gray, and the caulk lines between the faux tiles are hardly visible.

“That one,” I say.

“The gray slate?”

“Yep.”

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner.”

“I get chicken for dinner?”

“KFC or Popeyes. You choose.”

“Neither.”

“Gluten?”

“Yeah. I can eat their grilled chicken sandwich without the bun though.”

Sarah makes a face.

“I’d rather just fix myself something.”

“I guess you are kind of high maintenance, aren’t you?” Sarah says.

“My mom and dad would probably say so. We couldn’t go out to eat like normal families.”

“That wasn’t your fault, though.”

“Nope. Anyway. So, is that the tile you were leaning towards?”

“Yes, sir. Gray is the new neutral. I’ve been expecting it to go out of style, but I think it’s here to stay.”

I take a picture of the item number, so I can put in an order with Jack. I’ll have to do it later, because the floor dimensions are sitting wherever I left the cabinet measurements, hopefullyon Sarah’s kitchen table or counter. If not, I’ll have to pull out my tape measure again.

We’re searching the store for a heat gun when I hear Sarah exclaim behind me. I turn to look. She’s standing in front of an endcap display with a large, gray farmhouse sink.