Page 46 of Debugging Love

“I wouldn’t mind splitting my rent,” I try, dipping my toe into emotionally charged waters. She’d have to sell the house. Mom’s house. The house we grew up in. The house Dad left us with when he decided to flake out and disappear with his girlfriend. It’s where we played in the backyard as kids, making paths through the tall grass, road systems for our make-believe towns that were populated by make-believe people.

“You’re thinking about moving in with Morgan and Kayla?”

Is she playing dumb or is she deflecting?

“We’ve talked about it. The more roomies, the better the apartment–a luxury apartment with all the amenities.”

“You must make a lot more than I do,” Willa says with a tinge of skepticism. She knows how much money I make. I’ve never kept it a secret. As a teacher, she makes considerably less, but I’d be willing to cover more of the rent if she wanted to share an apartment.

“Molly loves her daycare,” Willa adds.

Okay. She knows what I’m getting at and she’s deflecting.

“She can’t wait to see her buddies every day,” she adds.

Molly isn’t human, but she may as well be. Mom gave her to us for Christmas nearly ten years ago. She was a pup, a rambunctious little Golden Retriever. I miss that dog more than I miss rolling hills, more than October harvests and bonfires on cold autumn nights. I miss some things about Indiana. But at least, I get to see Molly on Zoom.

At the sound of her name, her head pops above Willa’s table. She pants happily, letting her tongue lull to the side.

“Hey, girl,” I say in the high-pitched, singsong tone that I reserve for cute animals and babies. “Whatcha doin’ under there?”

Her head moves side to side, offsetting the weight of her wagging tail.

“She’s being a good girl, aren’t you?” Willa coos. She leans over and plants a kiss on her head. Molly responds by jumping onto Willa’s lap. “Molly, no!” Willa raises her hands to protect her polish from Molly’s long hair. It sticks to everything, including the air. “Down, Molly.”

She doesn’t budge which earns a snicker from me. Willa manages to gently shove her off and then leans over to inspect her nails. “She ruined them,” she says with a resigned sigh. “I have to start over.”

Willa slides out of her chair to retrieve her nail polish remover. I look at her empty chair at the table she and I used to share with Mom every night. A hint of sadness darkens my chest. I don’t know how Willa can stay in that house, but it’s not for me to decide.

I look over my shoulder at the living room window. Sunlight streams through the mini blinds making stripes on the carpet. Thoughts of the nearby beach brighten my chest. Thoughts of a beach day with Morgan and Kayla brighten it further. I have good friends. A good gig at JetAero. Putting up with Chance on my new project won’t spoil my vibe. I made the right decision, coming down here. With a satisfied breath, I turn back to my nails, dip the brush into the bold blue and get back to work.

Chapter 11

Danni

I love the ocean but I don’t love fish. I don’t like how they slither, I don’t like how they feel, and I don’t like how they smell–alive, dead, or cooked.

Every day for the past week and a half, Chance has brought salmon for lunch, popped it into the microwave, and sullied the air with a fishiness that lingers well into the afternoon. His alpine mist isn’t even a match for it.

Morgan, Kayla, and I have been going out to lunch to avoid the worst of the smell, but I can’t keep spending ten dollars a day at Chubb’s Sub and Grub. That adds up quick.

Hence, I’ve taken a break from software architecting to whip up a petition. It’s simple—one paragraph with enough lines for everyone in the office to sign, not including Chance.

A Petition for Olfactory Peace

We, the undersigned, call a moratorium on microwaving salmon or any other types of fish due to its offensive, lingering odor. While we support the consumption of omega-3 fatty acids, we feel they have no place in this office unless in pill form.By signing this petition, we seek to re-establish office order, noting that we wholeheartedly support the right to privately consume fish. Just don’t do it here. In unity:

And that’s that. I send it to the printer in the supply room and then run to pluck it off the machine before anyone sees it. Stealthily, I attach a piece of tape, wander nonchalantly into the empty breakroom, and then check over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone before slapping my petition to the wall. I’m back in my seat before anyone gets wise.

Chance didn’t notice my ninja moves. One, because they were ninja moves, and two, because he’s been hovering by Drew all day every day since last week. They’re hunched in front of Drew’s monitors, hyperfocused on something while I sit over here enjoying my alone time except for the annoying twinge in my chest whenever I suspect that they’re mucking with my code. But they wouldn’t be doing that. My code is already in test. Every programmer knows you don’t mess with code when it’s in test.

I clench my jaw and refocus on my work. My meeting with Chance and Heng is in twenty minutes, during which I plan to give them an overview of our benefits portal application and talk them through the code scaffolding. Ever since Christopher told me I was taking the lead on this project, I’ve spent my mornings and afternoons idiot-proofing the architecture so neither Chance nor Heng veer off course–mostly Chance. Heng and I haven’t talked much, but I sense he’s a rule follower, not an ego-coder, thank goodness.

At five minutes to ten, I push away from my desk and squint at Chance’s back, which is next to Drew’s back, both of them hunched over like they’re peering at an old Commodore 64 green screen versus the three monitors that Drew bought himself because he didn’t approve of JetAero’s standard issue LCD monitors. Also, two monitors weren’t enough. He brought in a third one, and then he chained them to his desk so no onecould steal them. Probably a smart move. I looked it up. They cost five hundred dollars each. In other words, Drew and Chance have plenty of viewing area.

What are they doing over there? Designing a fusion rocket to travel to Proxima Centauri? Or is Drew slowly getting Chance up to speed on JetAero’s apps? I thought I was supposed to train Chance.

Oh well. If he wants to follow Drew around like a puppy, I can’t stop him. And this way, Chance’s gum chewing is out of earshot and his big feet are nowhere near my tiny feet.

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