Page 89 of Error Handling
“I wouldn’t do that.” Except I already have. Accidentally. Sorta.
Chris knocks.
“Okay. Shush. Mom, I gotta go. I’ll see you in a week. Bye.”
I hang up.
There’s no reason Chris can’t hear my conversation with my mother, it’s just...too much at once. I need to focus on Chris, just Chris, so I don’t melt like an idiot again.
“Come in,” I call. I’ve already told him he doesn’t need to knock.
His work boots clomp down the front hall, and he appears in the doorway. He’s pulled his wavy hair back in a low ponytail, but a single curl has sprung loose, caressing the contours of his cheek. The sight of it sends heat up my neck and into my cheeks.
“Hey,” he says. He meets my eyes for a moment and then jabs his thumb toward his truck. “I rented a sander for the weekend.”
I clear my throat and concentrate on slowing my heart rate. “Do you need me to help you bring it in?”
“No. I just wanted to warn you. The vinyl shouldn’t take long, and then I’ll start sanding. It’ll be noisy.”
“Noise is fine.” A second chance at that kiss would be fine too. More than fine. Necessary. With his consent, of course. Me and Christopher would be over, then. For good.
“Okay.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, and then his eyebrows twitch. He pats his waist. “I forgot my toolbelt.”
“You can come in and out without my permission, you know.”
“I mean, I forgot it at home.”
“Well, flapjacks.” Humor has defused the romantic tension before; however, I wish I had come up with a better word. The nerves are negatively affecting my creativity.
He grins at me.
“I have no idea,” I say. “I guess I’m hungry.” Although it’s not food I’m hungry for.
“I need to go home and get it,” he says. “Unless you have a utility knife.”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“I’ll be right back then,” He turns and grasps the hallway doorjamb. “It won’t take long.”
“I could come with you.”
“Um.” He shrugs with his hand still on the doorjamb. “Sure.”
“Let me grab my purse.”
Chris
I was determined to play it cool today. Thursday evening—the failed kiss, her admission of inexperience—made me second guess things. She’s never done anything more than kiss a guy. And only two, at that.
She’s also had a guy wipe oil paint off her back with a sponge. Maybe that counts for something. It certainly felt intimate.
It’s not enough though. Allison and I went all the way every weekend for two years. That puts Sarah and me on different playing fields. I’m experienced. Sarah isn’t.
I don’t look down on her. Not at all.
What if she wants a guy who saved himself? What if I move too quickly for her and overwhelm her? Would I have to...teach her?
With that thought, I shut down the conversation in my head. We haven’t even kissed, and I’m projecting out months, years in advance. Why? I’m leaving soon anyway.