Page 26 of The Lineman

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

I whirled into action, grabbing anything remotely salvageable.

The salad!

The salad was fine—mostly because I hadn’t made it. It was pre-packaged from the store. Thank God.

Homer, sensing my panic, stuck his nose into the salad bowl before I could stop him.

“DUDE!” I yanked it away, too late.

One slimy piece of lettuce hung from his mouth as he stared at me with zero remorse.

I grabbed my phone, frantically typing.

Me: Are you running late? Feel free to run late. Like, an hour. Or two.

A knock came from the front of the house.

“OH, COME ON.” My arms flew into the air.

Homer lost his ever-loving mind, barking and racing toward the front of the house like the Pope had arrived with a bowl of bacon-flavored holy water.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Took a deep breath. Wiped my hands on my shirt, realized my shirt had sauce on it, panicked, and ripped it off, yanking on a clean one from the laundry pile before rushing to the door. At least, it looked clean. I smelled it for good measure. Fuck me. It was clean enough.

I opened the door to find Elliot standing there, all broad shoulders and smug amusement, watching as Homer danced at his feet like he had been waiting his whole life for this reunion.

“Hey, neighbor,” Elliot said, eyes flicking down to my still slightly damp shirt before flicking back up to meet my eyes.

I cleared my throat, attempting to channel a man who had his life together.

“Hey,” I said casually, leaning on one arm against the doorframe before promptly slipping and tumbling sideways into the door.

Then, from the kitchen—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

I froze.

Elliot raised an eyebrow. “Is that . . . your smoke alarm?”

I did not blink. I did not falter.

“Absolutely not.”

More beeping.

Elliot’s eyes widened in recognition, then his lips tugged into a knowing smirk. “Right. So, uh . . . you gonna let me in, or are we having dinner out here, on the porch?”

I opened the door wider, stepping aside as Homer lost his mind again, pawing at Elliot like he was trying to climb a tree.

Elliot stepped in, immediately sniffing the air. Then he frowned. “You cooking?”

“Define cooking.”

He turned to me fully now, arms crossed, head tilted. “Mike?”

I exhaled dramatically. “I am an ambitious man, Elliot. I have dreams. I had plans. As it turns out, plans are dumb, and I should never be allowed near a stove or a burner or a campfire. Hell, I shouldn’t be allowed inside a kitchen, let alone allowed to operate machinery within.”

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