Page 92 of Debugging Love

“It is unhealthy to hold in flatulence,” he says.

“Did your protein drink contain lactose?”

“Yes. And I drank it with full-fat milk, per usual. My intestinal bacteria will settle down in exactly one hour and forty-five minutes.”

Hand in hand by the pasture fence,

We laughed and loved, it all made sense.

In the moo-light, our hearts were aglow.

We found love at Cow-Tip Bingo.

I grab Chance’s phone and hit the pause button on his Spotify widget. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Chance starts singing the chorus in a spot-on southern twang, with a surprisingly rich bass that threatens to topple my resolve to dislike him.

“No, that’s worse,” I say.

His voice makes me want to listen for days, but the lyrics are atrocious and I can’t handle them coming from someone as handsome as Chance.

“You pick something,” he says.

“We’re almost at Morgan’s.”

“We have ten minutes.”

“Okay, then.” He rattles off his PIN and I open Spotify, trying to think of something we both might like. “Young the Giant?”

“Because the lead singer is Indian?”

“No. Because I like them.”

“I don’t. Next.”

After much consideration, I give Chance three more options and receive “Next” in response to all of them. When we hit one we agree on, Drew says, “Next.” And then we turn into Morgan’s apartment complex.

Morgan is out the door with her suitcase before Chance pulls to a complete stop. Her yellow babydoll blouse flutters in the breeze as she frowns at the van, probably hoping for a Dodge Charger or something faster. She’ll change her tune when she realizes there’s a fold-down screen that we can stream movies to.

I watch Chance’s back as he steps out to wrangle Morgan’s suitcase. She lets him do the honors and climbs in behind me while Drew messes with the controls under his seat.

“What are you doing?” Morgan asks over the soft whir of the chair’s motor.

“A system’s check,” he replies, curtly.

A loud clack sends the chair backward so fast that Drew bounces in his seat and my suitcase torpedoes out of the van. We stare at Drew while he blinks at the ceiling.

Morgan twists up her eyebrows. “You broke the chair.”

“I did not break the chair,” Drew says calmly, faceup, blinking.

I hop out to check on my cheap, plastic suitcase. It landed right side up on the casters and rolled down the street, coming to rest in front of a tandem bike. The riders are peering down at it in confusion. When I tell them my annoying coworker shot it out of the van, they peer at me in confusion. “Sorry,” I mumble as I grab the handle. A quick tug tells me everything is in working order.

In the meantime, Chance has climbed into the back of the van. He’s exerting maximum effort to right Drew’s chair. Unfortunately, Drew’s repeated claims of, “It will not move. It will not move,” prove accurate.

Chance climbs out and runs his hand through his hair. A breeze picks up and rustles the hydrangeas in front of Morgan’s apartment. “Drew busted the chair.”

“I did not,” Drew says loudly. “The motor broke.”

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