Page 9 of Error Handling
Every time I try to defend myself against her verbal jabs, it leads to a fight, and I don’t feel like battling with her tonight.
When I reach Battery, the brunette is gone. My heart drops a few centimeters. I should have asked for her name and number in the elevator. Maybe I would have if Mom hadn’t been yacking in my ear.
No. I wouldn’t have asked for her number. I’m not that kind of guy. I’m the kind of guy that lets the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen get lost in the crowd. That’s why my mom doesn’t have to worry about me becoming tethered to a city. The odds of me falling in love, even in Paris, are slim to nil. I have no plans of traveling to Europe anyway.
“...we’d have to sell out and I don’t know if we’d come away with enough money to fund my retirement. I’m only sixty-five. I could live thirty more years. Your father, not so much.”
“Mom, geez.”
“I’m just being realistic. I have to be. I have to figure out how I’m going to survive when your father’s gone. With you running the business, I’d have a reliable flow of cash.”
Clearly she’s forgotten that I nearly flunked out of every math class I ever took. Yet, she expects me to earn a college degree in mechanical engineering. Yeah, right. I’d rather eat a live jellyfish. Puerto Rico is sounding better and better.
“I have to go, Mom. I’m almost to the restaurant and I’m over forty-five minutes late.”
“She probably thinks you stood her up.”
“She might. Listen, I’m sure Dad will eat when he’s hungry. You don’t have to micro-manage him.”
Mom sighs. “You’re not helping.”
“I’m trying. There’s only so much I can do.”
She sighs again.
“Call me later if he still refuses to eat,” I say.
“All right.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you too, son. You know I do. That’s why I want you home.”
“I know.” Sort of.
She might have a heart attack of her own when I tell her I’m headed to Puerto Rico next, but I’ll worry about that later. After I get the job.
I check my phone to see if I have a text from Sarah. Nothing. Maybe she’s afraid of appearing too pushy. If the situation were reversed, I might feel uncomfortable nagging a stranger about their lack of punctuality.
I open our last text conversation and type as I walk.
Sorry, I’m running late. I’m almost to the—
My phone nearly catapults out of my hand. Beautiful brown eyes peer up at me through misplaced strands of glossy brown hair. Words elude me. She seems equally taken aback.
I coach the pubescent teen inside myself.It’s okay. It’s just a girl. She won’t bite. You can talk to her.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I shouldn’t text and walk.”
She brushes the hair from her face and fingers the sides of her iPhone. “I shouldn’t either.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You already said that.”
“Um.” I scratch my head. “Okay.”
“Did you convince her to make the potato soup?”