Page 98 of Error Handling
He arrives in eighteen minutes and takes a look under my hood to see if he notices anything amiss. When he doesn’t find anything, he says goodbye to my right arm and my left leg. “I’m going to miss you,” he says.
“I hope not,” I whine. “What do you think it is this time?”
“It might be the fuel pump.”
“How much will that cost?”
“Six hundred maybe?”
I groan.
“Get in,” he says. “I’ll follow you.”
The drive to the Nissan dealership is uneventful, except for a few sputters when I try to take off from a red light. Unlike Sunday when I was by myself, I don’t panic. I just glance at Christopher in my rearview mirror and flash my hazards.
Finally, my car decides to behave, and I catch up with traffic.
I park my car near the maintenance garage and drop my keys into an envelope for the guys to retrieve tomorrow, and then I hop into Christopher’s car.
“Pray it’s nothing serious,” I say. “It won’t take much to drain my savings account.”
“I can help you out if you need it,” Christopher says.
I shake my head vigorously. “I can always ask my dad. He wants me to get rid of the car anyway. Says it’s too old.”
“He might be right.”
“He’d probably buy me a car if I asked. Not a new one, but a newer one.”
“You must have great parents.”
I laugh. “Definegreat.”
Christopher spends the next ten minutes citing examples of great parenting from various sitcoms, most of which I’ve never seen.
“June and Ward Cleaver from ‘Leave It to Beaver,’” Christopher says. “Ward never yelled, even when the Beav gothis head stuck in the fence or when he climbed up to the billboard and fell into the cup of soup.”
“I’ve never watched that show,” I say.
“I have the entire series on DVD. You should come over and watch it sometime.”
His invitation ignites a conflict in my brain. This isn’t a date. This is a friend helping a friend. But going over to his house and watching the Beav? That would be a date.
Am I on the market or off the market? Given Chris’s noncommittal, waffling behavior, I’m not sure. We made out on Saturday, though, so that had to count for something. Did it count as a relationship?
Rather than commit to a date with Christopher, I remain silent. Five minutes later, Christopher pulls up to the curb in front of my house. He puts the car into park and turns to me.
“I can drive you to the dealership when your car is ready,” he says.
“Okay,” I reply, although in my mind I’ve resolved to call an Uber. “Thanks for helping me out tonight.”
“I’m here for you whenever you need me.”
The customary mischievous glint in his eyes is gone. Now his eyes communicate seriousness mixed with longing. I recognize that look. I know what’s about to happen.
“I’ve been seeing Chris Butcher,” I blurt.
Christopher backs off. Resignation hardens his features. He sinks into the driver’s seat. “I know.”