Page 99 of Error Handling
“How?”
“When you and Cassie were talking in the breakroom on Friday, I heard everything.”
I feel a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry. I’m just—I like you. A lot. I really do, but—”
“You like Chris more.”
I stuff my hands in my jacket pockets and lean my head against the headrest. “He and I aren’t committed. I don’t know if we ever will be.”
“Why didn’t he take you to the dealership tonight?”
“He was busy. He—”
Instead of explaining, I pull out my cellphone and hand it to Christopher. He reads the text exchange and then hands it back to me.
“A man of few words,” he says.
“Yeah. He says he’s a minimalist.”
“I dropped everything for you.”
I lift my head and look at Christopher. “Your ramen and your basketball game?”
“I was actually getting some work done from home. It’s due tomorrow. I’ll be up late.”
“Oh.”
He lied.
“But I was eating ramen and listening to the basketball game at the same time,” Christopher adds.
So, not a total lie. More like a minor fib. I run my thumb along the edge of my phone. “I’m confused.”
Christopher reaches over and caresses my cheek. “I know,” he says. “But I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.” He drops his hand and anchors it on the bottom of the steering wheel.
His comment makes my heart flutter. I look at his hand and wonder what it would feel like against my neck or trailing down my arm.
The longer I sit in his car, the more confused I become. “I better leave.”
“I’ll be here,” he says before I close the door.
I watch as he drives away.
Tuesday and Wednesday roll by with no texts or phone calls from Chris. The more time passes, the more frustrated I become.
As much as I want to, I refrain from texting him until I have a valid reason, which is Wednesday evening when the kitchen cabinets arrive. I text him to tell him they’re here and that I’m excited to have a kitchen sink again. Hint. Hint. In other words, “Get yourself over here and finish my kitchen, after which we can sit down and have a long conversation about what on earth is going through your head.”
Of course, I don’t say anything that personal over text. I know I won’t handle it well if he responds with a curt, one-sentence answer.
Finally, he does respond on Thursday. He says he’ll be over in the evening to install the cabinets. My heart immediately cranks into third gear.
When he arrives at seven o’clock like he promised, my heart is still hammering. I don’t step away from my easel. Chris pokes his head into the back porch to say hello, and I respond in kind without taking my eyes off my painting. I’m so angry I can’t see my paint strokes. But it’s not just anger. I want a repeat of Saturday on Chris’s couch.
Calm down, Sarah.
I breathe deeply and squint at my canvas. When that doesn’t work, I pull up Spotify on my phone and send From Indian Lake’sBreathe, Desperatelyto my Bluetooth speaker. I crank it to make sure Chris will hear it over his beating and banging.
He doesn’t complain about my song selection, so I click to theirDimly Litalbum and let it play through. Sixteen songs comprise the album, and Chris never pops into the back porch to talk to me. Not once. By the last song, I feel like I’m going to explode. How long does it take to install a stupid kitchen cabinet?