Page 24 of The Lineman

I exhaled, starting at the end, hoping to avoid the story altogether. “I asked him to dinner. At his place. Tomorrow night.”

“Oooooh, home date. That’s sexy.” Sisi grinned. “Make sure you wear clean underwear—and not those with all the holes. Jesus, you men never shop for underwear. What’s with that?”

“First,” I said, my brow furrowed, “how do you know my underwear has holes?”

Sisi grinned and shrugged.

“And second, how do you know I plan towearunderwear?”

“Oh, this just got spicy!” Matty clapped his hands again. “Do we think he’s going to cook something elaborate and romantic, or is he a grilled cheese and boxed wine kind of guy?”

Omar smiled. “Only one way to find out.”

“I bet he’s the type to stress bake before you get there.” Matty tilted his head, as if calculating. “If you walk into his kitchen and there are eight dozen muffins, I want a box.”

“Me, too,” Sisi jumped in. “We always need snacks at the hospital.”

I rubbed my temples. “Why are you all like this?”

Matty patted my arm. “Because we care.”

Omar nodded. “We just want you to be happy.”

Sisi smirked. “Or at least to get laid sowecan be happy.”

I groaned.

Matty raised his glass. “To Elliot, our living Greek statue and emotionally repressed brother, finally having a crush.”

Omar clinked his glass against Matty’s. “To Mike, the brave soul who captured his attention.”

Sisi cackled. “And to the dog, the true hero of this love story, and likely the only one who will need a cigarette when it’s done.”

The three of them clinked glasses, drank deeply, and laughed like a patient who’d had a little too much anesthesia.

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose.

I really needed new friends.

Chapter eight

Mike

Idon’tknowwhatstupid, delusional part of me thought that cooking dinner for Elliot was a good idea, but I would like to formally file a complaint with my past self.

Because, despite my deep, unwavering belief that I am a man of many talents, there was one undeniable truth in this world—

I could not cook to save my goddamn life.

This didn’t stop me fromthinkingI could cook. Oh no, in my head, I was a domestic god, whipping up elegant, restaurant-quality meals while wearing an apron and holding a glass of wine like some kind of attractive, culinary genius. Hell, I’d watched every episode ofChopped,MasterChef,Next Level Chef, andTop Chefever filmed. I’d even taken notes like Simon Majumdar onTournament of Champions, evaluating each dish in my best snooty judge voice while glued to the screen.

But in reality?

Reality was me standing in the middle of my smoke-filled kitchen, frantically waving a dish towel at my screeching smoke detector, while my traitorous dog darted between my legs like a furry missile, chasing a rogue onion I had dropped on the floor.

“Homer! STOP!” I yelped, stumbling as the dog zoomed past me, nearly taking out my ankle.

Homer ignored me, snatching up the onion and racing in victory laps around the kitchen.

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