Page 101 of Error Handling

I stomp over to Chris and press my body against his. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me tighter while kissing me hard. We slide to the floor. I sit on his lap while he leans against the cabinets.

We kiss until my lips hurt, then he picks me up, carries me to the couch, and lays me down. He hovers over me, and I search for his lips as my hands roam his back.

“This,” Chris says, as he pulls away. “This is what I’m afraid of.”

I drop my head against the couch cushions and rest my forearm against my forehead. I don’t need him to explain. “I’ll behave.”

“Will I?”

I sit up. “I know you would never pressure me into anything.”

“Would it take much pressuring?” Chris says. A curl splits his eye in half.

I rub my face, agitated.

“I know where this leads.”

Marriage?I’m not dumb enough to say it. Why am I thinking it anyway, after only a month? Less than a month. But I remember something Cassie said:When you know, you know.

Unless I’m with Christopher Fonseca. Then I don’t know. What’s wrong with my brain? I rub my face again.

“We’re adults,” I say. “We can control ourselves.”

Chris leans his elbows on his knees and folds his hands under his chin. “I took the job in Puerto Rico,” he says, without looking at me.

I knew it was a possibility, but his words still drop onto my chest like a ten-pound weight.

“Okay,” I say, softly. And then, “When do you leave?”

“In three weeks.”

Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. “So, will that be it, then, between you and me?”

The ringtone on Chris’s cellphone punctuates my sentence. When he looks at the caller ID, his face grows concerned. “I better pick this up.”

He answers the phone and stands. I watch him pace the living room but don’t register his words. I found the perfect guy, and he’s leaving. He doesn’t care enough about me to stay. Or he cares so much he needs to leave. I don’t know which. Either is unacceptable as far as I’m concerned.

When Chris hangs up, he turns to me. “I need to go to Missouri. My dad is sick.”

I try to push my own thoughts aside. Judging by Chris’s expression, it’s serious. “Okay,” I say as a numbness pours through my limbs.

He isn’t leaving in three weeks. He’s leaving now. My perfect guy. Gone for good.

Chapter 17

Chris

Less than twenty-four hours after I got the call from my brother, I pull my rental car into the driveway. It would have been quicker to drive than fly, but then I’d be sleep-deprived and irritated. It never fails, every time I drive, I get stuck behind a wreck or road construction, usually around Nashville. Even though I love to travel, I don’t enjoy traffic much.

My childhood home in Blackville, Missouri sits on ten acres, most of it wooded, except for the front, where the house is located. My father helped build the Cape Cod style log cabin shortly after he married my mom, and they raised three children here, ran a business out of the downstairs office, and replaced the shingles with a metal roof after a small twister knocked down a few trees.

The gently rolling yard was perfect after snowstorms. My brother and I stayed outside for hours sledding down the hill just off the garage. When I was older, I’d launch down it on my dad’s snowmobile. My nieces and nephews visit after snowstorms tocontinue the tradition, assuming the county roads aren’t drifted shut.

The moment I step inside, the smell of warm caramel welcomes me. Beyond the foyer, a hallway splits the house in half, with a formal living room on one side, and my father’s office on the other. The hallway opens to the kitchen and family room.

The kitchen’s 1980s cabinets were on their last leg a decade ago. If I still lived here, Mom would have asked me to replace them by now. She appreciates my handyman skills when she needs them.

Sarah and I could do a number on the kitchen. I’d demo. She’d spruce it up, bring it up to date, add decorative flourishes. A farmhouse sink.

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