Page 174 of The Lineman

Mike groaned, throwing himself onto the bed dramatically, narrowly missing a pile of his own discarded clothes and launching Homer like a rocket out of the room. “Elliot, I’m serious.”

I sighed, pushing off the doorframe to sit on the edge of the bed. “Babe. Take a breath.”

He huffed into the sheets.

I patted his back. “No one’s coming to this thing to rate your outfit, right? They’re coming for the kids.”

His head popped up, curls a disastrous tangle of auburn madness. “What if no one comes at all?”

I blinked. “That’s . . . a separate issue entirely.”

“No, but seriously,” he continued, sitting up with wild gestures. “What if it’s just Mateo, Jamie, and me sitting in an empty classroom like idiots? What if the kids don’t show up? What if their parents don’t show up? What if I’ve been working toward this thing for months just to sit in a sad, lonely circle of failure?”

I considered this, then said, “Well, on the plus side, you’ll have plenty of outfit choices for your lonely circle of failure.”

Mike glared.

I bit my lip, trying hard not to laugh.

“You arenothelping,” he grumbled.

I put a hand on his thigh. “Mike, listen to me. Kids will come. Parents will come. Thismatters. You know that. And yeah, maybe there won’t be fifty people there, but ifonekid shows up, and they feel seen—you’ve already won.”

His shoulders sagged a little.

I softened my voice. “You’re doing something huge, babe—and it has nothing to do with what you wear.”

Mike exhaled, pressing his lips together. “Okay. Fine. You might have a point.”

“Of course I do. I’m the hot, wise, supportive boyfriend. It’s my job.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. It felt a little strange using the B word, but I was getting used to it. Being with Mike was easy. Accepting my place in the world, well, that was a work in progress.

I squeezed his knee. “Now, can we please pick an outfit before you actually combust? I would rather not have to pick up tiny pieces of Mike all night. You know how you get stuck on the ceiling when you explode.”

Mike rolled his eyes—his whole head, actually—then stood and started rifling through the clothes on the bed. “Fine. But you’re helping me decide.”

“Me? I might be the least qualified person on the planet to help you pick clothes.” I chuckled. “I am enjoying watching you run around half naked, though.”

He shot me a look. “I swear to God, Elliot.”

I grinned. “All right, all right. Let’s get you dressed.”

Mikewasamess.

Not an adorable, flustered kind of mess. Not the “Oh no, I left the oven on” kind of mess.

No, this was full-scale, category-five Mike Albert Meltdown, complete with rapid pacing, unnecessary shirt adjustments, and an alarming amount of crazy old man muttering.

“Babe,” I said as we pulled into the school parking lot, “if you touch your shirt one more time, I’m gonna rip it off of you in front of the PTA.”

Mike froze, one hand mid-adjustment, his eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.”

I smirked. “Try me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then, without another word, he sat on his hands.

God, I loved him and his crazy ways.

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