Page 90 of Error Handling
Given the complications, it’s better that we didn’t kiss on Thursday. All I have to do is fix her floors, put in her cabinets, and then leave her for someone better. It’s the gentlemanly thing to do.
Except now Sarah is sitting next to me in my truck, her narrow ankles crossed, her delicate hands folded in her lap. The truck’s fan sends the smell of her shampoo my way, and I want to move closer to it. To her. To feel the softness of her hair and to fold her hand into mine.
Stop it.
I’m not the one for her. Period.
We’re quiet the entire drive. I’m lost in my conflicting thoughts while Sarah peers quietly out the passenger side window asGood Morning Fire Eaterby Copeland plays on the radio.
After turning onto my street, I suggest she stay in the car while I pop in to grab the toolbelt. She insists she wants to see my apartment.
I turn into the alley and pull into the short driveway behind a yellow home with generous bay windows. A wooden stairway and deck on the back of the house provide access to my second-floor apartment.
We head up and I unlock the door and hold it for her as she passes through. My apartment has good bones. That’s about it. I already stayed in Charleston longer than I intended. The idea was to drop in for a bit, make some good money, and then move on. Given those intentions, I never bothered to decorate orfurnish. I have a couch, a flatscreen television, a kitchen table, and an air mattress. That’s it.
Sarah’s jaw drops when she enters the living room.
I never bothered to paint either, even though the previous tenants left me with various smudges and nail holes in the white plaster. The original wood floors are scratched and there’s a pet stain in the corner that I could cover with a rug if I had any inclination to decorate.
“How long have you lived here?” Sarah asks.
“Three years.”
“Chris!” She turns to me, a stunned look paralyzing her features. “This looks like a drug house.”
Not fair. It doesn’t lookthatbad. Or does it? I’ve lived like this for so long that I hardly notice it.
“You’ve been in a drug house?” I ask.
“I have now.”
“My apartment isn’t that bad.”
“It’s not good.”
She walks over to the doorway leading to my bedroom, peeks in, and then gasps loudly. “You sleep on an air mattress!”
“It’s comfortable.”
“Chris. Oh, Chris.” She walks back to me tsk-tsking.
“Sleep Number beds are basically air mattresses,” I say.
“Your ‘bed’ is a vinyl floatation device with an attached hair dryer. How do you not have back problems?”
Chris shrugs. “I’m virile.”
Sarah tilts her head back and laughs. The sound sends waves of desire through me. Not good if I intend to put the brakes on our relationship. Every movement she makes weakens my resolve.
“What’s so funny about my virility?”
“Oh, nothing.” She pokes my side.
“Hey.” I back up. “I’m ticklish.”
“Are you now?” Sarah’s eyes narrow mischievously. She closes the gap between us with her hands poised like claws.
I laugh in anticipation. My brother used to torture me like this, tickling me incessantly until I could no longer breathe. Unlike most adults, I still lose tickle fights.