Page 21 of Spark
The manlistens. It’s so freaking refreshing, and so different from my last relationship.
Fresh energy fills me. I get out of the truck, pocket my phone, and adjust my hoodie to hide my waning erection. “Let’s get the oven inside first.”
We manage to get through the install without issue. The rest of my afternoon stretches out before me, three appointments with new clients for initial walk-throughs, and all without Charlie. I can’t wait.
At noon, Raven and I are eating lunch back at the office. I’m scrolling through my afternoon schedule when my phone vibrates.
Finlay: How’s your day going? I’m eating at my desk. My sandwich reminds me of the cochinita pibil we ate yesterday.
That food was so good. I want to go back to the restaurant with him and try more.
Mateo: The rest of the install went well. Your lunch sounds better than the meatball sub I grabbed from a food truck. The bread is stale and soggy.
Finlay: A sub-par sub? Not good. We’ll have to make that up to you.
Mateo: Make it up to me? That sounds like it could be our second date.
Finlay: I’ll look for a good restaurant and don’t worry, I’ll make sure everything is hot.
I’m not touching thateverything is hotline. Because I’m reading it as everything being hot between us, and if I go down that line of thinking, I’ll end up arriving at my one o’clock appointment with a hard on. Eagerness to see him forms my response.
Mateo: How about this Sunday?
Finlay: Perfect.
Six days away. I hope this week flies by quickly.
I finish eating and then head out to my appointments. Each time my phone vibrates, I’m ready to dive for it like it contains a breaking news bulletin. In a way, it does. Finlay is charming, funny, and sending out suggestions for places with Sunday brunches. I hope that his choice of brunch is a hint that he wants to spend the whole day together again and not because he has other plans filling his afternoon and evening. Maybe I’m being selfish, wanting so much time with him, but he’s amazing, and I can’t help it.
Back at home after a long day, I sink into the couch with a plateful of roasted chicken and veggies. A hockey playoff game between Philly and Buffalo is just underway, but my gaze is drawn from the TV to my phone, resting on the arm of the couch. I’ve checked it more often for messages today than I have in months, easily. Unable to help myself, I scroll through my conversation with Finlay again.
As I read through our exchanges, one glaring thought consumes me: I don’t want to wait until Sunday to see him.
Maybe I don’t have to. My pulse kicks up as my thumb taps over the keypad.
Mateo: How about dinner tomorrow night? My place.
I set the phone down and force my gaze back to the TV, but half of my concentration stays on my phone and I strain my ears listening for the buzz of the message notification.
It arrives, a low pitch drowning under the goal horn blaring from the TV. Philly’s ahead, but I’m more excited about seeing Finlay’s name than the fact that we’re now up by one goal. I snatch up the phone.
Finlay: I’m in. Need me to bring anything?
Mateo: Just yourself.
I’m thrilled he’s coming. Frenetic energy fills me. Clutching my plate, I head for the kitchen. I need to figure out what to cook for him, and to clean the house up a bit. I’ve been too tired lately to do more than the bare minimum.
Things need to be as perfect as I can make them. I wander from the kitchen to the bathroom to my bedroom, taking stock of what needs to be dusted, mopped, and vacuumed. The many unfinished house projects I pass mock me. I can’t believe I asked him to come to dinner here. What was I thinking? My house is nowhere near as ready as I’d like it to be. Aside from the living room and a few other places, everything in this fixer-upper looks as it did when I moved in two years ago.
More than anything, I want to impress Finlay. And as I look around my place, I don’t know if that’s going to happen.
The lasagna is in the oven. I wipe my hands on a dish towel and reduce the temperature to the keep-warm setting. A glance at the clock lets me know that Finlay is due to arrive any minute. Today has been a whirlwind of work, demoing an old bedroom and bath, then back home to cook and finish the chores I couldn’t get to last night.
The nervous energy I’ve existed on all day is still charging through me. I glance at my T-shirt and jeans, hoping Finlay will like what he sees. The jeans fit me well and the maroon tee hugs my arms and chest.
I cast a critical eye around the living room and the table set in the dining space in the room’s rear with the gray stoneware dishes Sofia and Eve gave me as a housewarming present.
Prior to my purchasing the house, the dividing wall between the living room and then dining room had been knocked down in favor of expanding the living room. The kitchen size is too small to fit a table with its layout, so the table is in the living room, against the wall that conceals my eyesore kitchen from view. If I seat Finlay on the wall side, his view will be of me, and the living room, and he won’t see the disaster visible through the window of the double swing door leading to the kitchen.
