Page 39 of Debugging Love

Chance looks skeptical.

“Everything has a cost,” I say. “Management doesn’t pay us to bjork around and fix what isn’t broken.”

Amusement replaces his skepticism. “Did you just say ‘bjork?’”

“I said what I said.”

He raises both eyebrows and pulls in a slow breath.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry? I think we should break for lunch.”

“I could eat.”

With a swift push against the floor, I propel myself over to my desk. Chance stands and strides to the breakroom, hands in pockets, self-assured as usual. When he’s out of sight, I drop my head to my hands. I’ve worked with code mavericks like him.Getting him to cooperate is going to be like herding toddlers at Disney World. Luckily, I’m neck deep in my own project, and will be until the end of August. He’ll be someone else’s problem while I zoom through the summer in solo-mode. The thought makes me smile. A hunger pang turns it into a wince.

I picked the wrong day to bring my lunch. And the wrong day to skip breakfast. My blood sugar is so tanked I’m both starving and nauseous. The distinct smell of salmon coming from the breakroom isn’t helping. I gotta walk through fish odor and past Chance to get to my food. The Chance part I can handle more than the smell. I might throw up.

I contemplate texting Morgan to see if she wants to go out for subs, but I’m working on a headache. I need to eat now. With a sigh, I push away from my computer and trudge into the breakroom that’s decorated with wall signs and coffee pods and napkins and empty containers that no one claimed the last time Juanita emptied the refrigerator out of spite.

Drew and Chance are sitting at a table, Chance with his salmon, Drew with a microwaved frozen dinner and a shaker cup full of protein powder. He chugs it in a single breath and then lets out a loud burp. A chorus of “excuse me’s” filters through the open doorway. It’s an office tradition. Drew burps. We excuse ourselves.

I head to the fridge and poke my head in, shoving a couple of containers out of the way to find my homemade chicken soup. After popping it into the microwave, I step back and cross my arms while I wait.

“She’s a dog groomer,” Chance says. “She didn’t have time to shower before our date, so she smelled like a Bulldog.”

“No self-respecting canine lover would own a brachycephalic dog,” Drew says in his clipped, choppy style.

“A Poodle, then.”

“Better. They do not shed. And their snouts are not malformed. However, they must be groomed. Hence, your date’s job. Hence her foul scent. Hence your crappy date. I had a beagle growing up. Not recommended either. They are the dumbest dog breed. He ate my pet salamander and almost died of salmonella. My salamander was already dead. I was preparing it for burial.”

“Sounds traumatic.”

“It was not.”

A brief silence. There’s two minutes left on my timer. Two more minutes to see if I care where this conversation goes.

“Anyway,” Chance says, “she only brushes her teeth with baking powder.”

“Baking powder when mixed with a tooth whitening toothpaste does wonders for coffee-stained teeth.”

“Only baking powder.”

“Hmm. Her breath must smell too, then.”

“I didn’t get close enough to find out.”

“How does one learn someone’s dental hygiene habits on a first date?”

“It was one of my questions. I decided to write up a list to save time.”

Chance has a list of questions for his dates now? So he can speed past the niceties and find out if she’s bedroom material? How…very…disgusting.

The microwave timer beeps. I pull out my soup and give it a stir. Behind me, Drew asks Chance about his questions, and Chance begins listing them off.

“What are your dental hygiene habits? Do you shower or bathe once a day? How often do you exercise?”

I slap my lid back on my container, grab a few napkins, and turn to leave. Chance’s smoldering eyes grab mine, making me pause. Heat rises up my neck, but I quickly shake it off.He manipulates women with that gaze, and I refuse to be manipulated.

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