Page 67 of Error Handling

Sure, I love their fries.

Ha.

I send Christopher a smiley emoji.

Chris Butcher’s truck pulls up to the curb in front of my house.

Keep me posted, okay?I quickly type.I’m beat. I’m going to head to bed.

Sweet dreams.He punctuates it with the kissing emoji.

I smile despite a nagging feeling of guilt for lying. I could have just told him the truth, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings. That’s how I rationalize it anyway.

I toss my phone into my purse and head out the front door. Chris meets me halfway up the sidewalk.

“Oh. Hey,” he says. He stuffs his hands into his coat pockets and escorts me back to the truck.

The truck’s aging-vinyl smell is more muted tonight because the temperature is in the mid-forties. We’re both wearing coats. I’m in my purple goose down puffer, and Chris is wearing a plain brown leather jacket that looks as worn as his jeans.

“Did you make much headway on the floor when I was gone?” he asks.

“Nope. I quit working when you left. My body needed a rest, and I was starving.”

“How was that?”

“What?”

“Cooking in the kitchen with half the floor missing?”

“Precarious at times,” I say, “but ramen only takes three minutes to cook.”

“You ate ramen for dinner?”

“Two packs.”

“You realize those noodles take thirty-two hours to digest?”

“You’re just jealous,” I say, and instantly regret it. No more joking about celiac disease, I remind myself.

“They make gluten-free soba noodles that are amazing,” he says. “You should try them. They digest in about two hours.”

“You should fix them for me sometime.” Yes, I said it. And I know exactly what I’m doing. Cornering him into another date. Never mind that he says he’s moving to Puerto Rico. He hasn’t told mewhenhe’s moving.

“I can do that,” he says after a short pause.

I become the living, breathing Webster’s Dictionary definition of glee, but I internalize it, except for the broad smile on my face, which I hide by turning my head to look out the window.

Charleston neighborhoods pass by—streets of modest homes dotted occasionally with more impressive brick homes. The houses sometimes neighbor small businesses with limited parking.

“How did the plumbing job go?” I ask when I gain control of my cheek muscles. I glance at him. He has both hands anchored on top of the wheel, his back slightly hunched as he squints through the windshield.

“Poorly,” he says. “I couldn’t get it to budge. I have to go back tomorrow night and climb under the house.”

“Ick.”

“Yep.”

“Is it a newer house?” I ask.