Page 40 of Debugging Love

He breaks eye contact and refocuses on Drew. “She’s not the one,” he says.

His sneaky little spell broken, I’m able to dart out of the room. As I cross the threshold I hear, “I still haven’t cracked the code. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

What code? The “how to get women into his bed” code? With a face like that, I hardly think the code is encrypted. Chance probably has women eating out of his hand. So, what code exactly?

The question niggles at me while I eat. Two questions actually. What is the code? And why do I want to know?

Chapter 9

Danni

What code? Is it the hotness code? The man code? The one-night-stand code? Morse code? The DaVinci code? What kind of guy chooses his potential mate based on some weird, predefined code? Code is for software applications, not for life, and definitely not for dating.

I need an auto-destruct code to blow up these thoughts because they’re too close to being interested in Chance’s personal life. Interested like a scientist is interested in multiplying spores in her petri dish, and even that is too much.

Speaking of. Spore arrives at his desk, clunks down a can of Coke along with his bum and rolls himself up to his computer. His feet barrel into mine even though mine are tucked carefully under my desk. Rather than kick him back, I give him another inch, my intermittent social anxiety ratcheting up because I canfeelthe cologne aura rolling off his Vans and it’s making me feel stuffy and crowded.

I finish my food slowly, savoring every second of my lunch break. Chance isn’t officially “onboarded” yet. I need to walk himthrough our code architecture, and with the way he likes to offer his opinions, that could take hours. The rest of the afternoon and into tomorrow. I can’t let that happen.

Social anxiety marches up my arms–a colony of ants looking for a spot of brain matter to call home. It’s not just Chance. I feel this way when I have to train anyone. It’s too people-y. I prefer to work alone. The flow state is my preferred state, and I can’t get there when I’m talking to a relative stranger.

There’s so much about Chance that I don’t know. Like, why is he so confident and persistent and opinionated? Has he always been like this or did he suffer a head injury as a child?

You know what? I don’t want to know. I wad up my napkin and toss it into my trash can, head to the bathroom for a potty break and return prepared to play trainer for the next four hours.

“You ready?” I ask as I lower myself into my office chair. I raise my seat so I can see him better. We make eye contact over the divider, two turtles inching out of our shells.

“Ready for what?” he asks.

“I swear we already had this conversation.”

“I thought we were done.”

“I need to talk you through our apps.”

His eyebrows form a “V,” the pointy bottom nearly parallel with the lime green divider.

“And I need to show you where to find the requirements and design docs.”

His eyebrows flatten and his head bobbles. I’m guessing he shrugged. I take that as an invitation and roll over to his desk, once again shoulder to shoulder with Chance, ladies man, code maverick, and professional gum chewer. His pile of wrappers has gotten bigger since I saw it last.

I talk Chance through downloading our suite of applications which includes several web services, five web applications that are loosely related, and a handful of micro-apps for variousdepartments, one of them my current project to create a custom document retrieval module to support auditing across JetAero’s R&D projects. I start with the biggest app, intending to work down in size, but I’m quickly interrupted by Chance’s fresh Wordle game.

“Again?”

“It helps me listen.”

“I’m talking you through our code, you should probably use your eyes.”

“I am,” he says, his eyes fixed on his phone.

“I mean, point them this way.” I point to his computer screen. Because he’s looking down, he misses my gesture, so I jab him with my elbow. He jumps back like I jolted him with a cattle prod, his chest collapsed and arms raised in self-defense. We scoot away from each other, Chance to gather his wits and me to nonchalantly sniff my armpit to see if I forgot my deodorant this morning. I distinctly remember taking a shower, so I shouldn’t smell.

“Are you better?” I ask after Chance visibly recovers.

“You surprised me.”

“Obviously. But you seem more alert now, so that’s good.”

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