Page 86 of Error Handling

The words, “What am I doing?” flash in my head like those hazard signs over the interstate, but I don’t stop him. We kiss again, as I wonder what Chris—the other Chris—might think of this.

My feelings for Chris are stronger, lightning hot, enough to melt me. My feelings for Christopher are softer, more mellow, manageable. Barely.

When we part, I say, “Do I pay you extra for that?”

“You don’t need to pay me at all,” Christopher says, and then he kisses me again.

Now things are getting too intense. I pull away.

He doesn’t seem phased. He simply smiles, fluffs one of my curls, and then turns back to his laptop.

“I’ll go through our favorites and make some minor adjustments in Photoshop,” he says. “The lighting is already good though. I don’t have much work to do.”

“Christopher?” I say.

He refocuses on me, but his hand remains on the mouse.

“I think I should go.”

Christopher’s smile falters. He turns to me, giving me his full attention. “Should I not have done that?”

I blush. “No. You should have. I think that’s why I need to go.”

Disappointment tugs on his features. “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

“Don’t be sorry.” I jiggle my knee. “I’m sorry. I’m not very experienced in things like this. I know. At my age I should know what I’m doing, but...”

Christopher rests his hand on my knee to stop it from bouncing. “It’s okay. I had a good time today. That’s all that matters.”

I rest my hand on his. “I had a good time too.” And then I surprise myself by leaning in for another kiss. This time he’s the first to pull away.

With a smile, he places an index finger on my lips. “I’ll take you home.”

Chapter 15

Sarah

I awaken on Saturday morning with warmth radiating through my arms and legs. I dreamed I was in Christopher’s apartment, sitting in front of his laptop, kissing Chris Butcher. While in a half-asleep state, it seemed only natural that I would be kissing Chris in Christopher’s apartment. When I’m fully alert, I realize the dream accurately symbolizes my divided affections.

To assuage my guilt, I remind myself that Chris and I aren’t committed. We’ve held hands, but we haven’t even kissed. Not that he didn’t try. Anyway, he made it plain that he was moving across an ocean. I don’t owe him any explanation for what happened with Christopher yesterday.

I push back the covers and shuffle into the kitchen where I toast a cinnamon bagel. While waiting for the toaster to finish, I circle the kitchen, enjoying the absence of soft spots and creaks in the new subfloor. Chris plans on installing the new sheet vinyl today. He texted me yesterday evening and told me he would arrive around nine o’clock this morning.

From eight o’clock to eight fifty-five, I fiddle and pace at the behest of Earl the Squirrel who is running feverishly on his hamster wheel (or squirrel wheel?). I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. Over the past two weeks, I’ve grown comfortable around Chris. I’ve managed to tame my attraction to him—to keep it at bay, at least. Except for Thursday night when he told me his soul was leaking, and then he punctured my heart with his eyes.

My cheeks blush at the memory of my body splayed across the floor, a victim of Chris’s almost-kiss. I’ll have to look him in the eye again today, but I’m not sure I can. Not when he knows I’m a novice in the kissing department. Why did I tell him I’ve only kissed two people?

Now three.

Why did I kiss Christopher Fonseca?

You can’t cheat if you aren’t in a relationship, I tell myself.

My phone rings and I jump.

“Hey,” I answer. It’s my mom.

“Did I wake you up?”