Page 114 of The Lineman

I laughed.

And for the first time in weeks, everything felt right.

Chapter thirty-one

Elliot

Iwaswrecked.

Between the fourteen-hour days in Florida, the long drive back, and now sitting in Mrs. H’s kitchen with a full stomach, my body was done. I could feel the exhaustion sinking into my bones, weighing me down like I was made of lead.

The last bite of clootie dumpling sat half eaten on my plate, but I didn’t have it in me to finish it. I’d never had suet in a dessert before, and while it wasn’t bad, it was definitely . . . different.

Across the table, Mike and Mrs. H were chatting away about something—more about his newfound desire to learn how to cook—but I only caught about half of it before my eyelids got too heavy.

“Lord, look at you,” Mrs. H said suddenly, her sharp eyes landing on me. “Hot as fuck but absolutely useless. I’ve seen newborn lambs with more strength in their legs than you’ve got right now.”

I blinked slowly. “I’m fine.”

She snorted. “Lad, you’re about two seconds from snoring into your plate. Go home. Take your boy with you and let him tuck you in nice and proper . . . or do you do the tucking in this relationship? I’ve never understood how you gays choose who gets pounded.”

Mike cleared his throat. “Mrs. H—”

“Oh, don’t even pretend, lad,” she interrupted, waving her spoon at him. “I know exactly what you’re about to do the second you get him behind closed doors. I might be a little rusty on the mechanics, but I get the picture.”

My brain was too slow to catch up, but Mike groaned and buried his face in his hands. “You have to stop saying things like that.”

“No, I don’t.” She grinned. “I’m old. I can say whatever the fuck I want.”

I smirked at Mike, too tired to really tease him but enjoying the way his face turned red. “She’s got a point. Youaretaking me home.”

“That’s the spirit, lad! Good man.” Mrs. H cackled. “Doesn’t take much energy to shove it in. You should be fine.”

Mike shoved his chair back. “All right, that’s it. We’re leaving before she gets worse.”

“Too late,” I muttered, standing up.

Mike was already helping me out of the chair like I was some fragile thing, which was ridiculous. I was exhausted, sure, but I wasn’t about to collapse in the middle of Mrs. H’s kitchen.

“Take care of him, lad,” she said to Mike, patting his arm as we made our way toward the door. “And don’t let him fool you—he likes being babied more than he lets on.”

Mike grinned, giving me a side glance. “Oh, I know.”

I glared at both of them. “I hate you both.”

Mrs. H smirked. “No, you don’t.”

And with that, she all but shoved us out the door, cackling like a damn cartoon villain about to tie a girl to a train track.

The night air was cool against my sunburned skin, the quiet hum of the cicadas filling the silence as we walked down the path toward my house. The tire swing at the house next door swung lazily, the limb groaning in protest each time it drifted one direction then the other.

“You realize she’s never gonna stop, right?” Mike said.

I huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, but I think you secretly like it.”

He scoffed. “You think I like getting grilled about my sex life by an elderly Scottish woman who feeds us unidentifiable food—if you can even call it that? Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ve always wanted.”

I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. “She does have a point, though.”

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