Luke’s place isn’t at all what I imagined on the ride over here, at least not since he told me about the money he and his brother made. When I step through the front door, I’m surprised to be standing in something kinda small with dingy white walls that need a serious paint job and a ceiling pockmarked by discoloration from water damage. The linoleum floor is old and beyond repair and the only thing that could do it justice would be to rip it all up and replace it entirely. But it’s only cosmetic, I see right away, as the house overall is livable and quaint in a bachelor pad sort of way.
Before I step farther in I take my sandals off at the door.
“Nah, you don’t have to do that,” he says, but I do anyway. “This isn’t exactly a palace, as you can see.”
I can also see a hint of slight nervousness hidden behind his eyes and that innocent smile of his, as though he’s quietly worried about what I might think of him now that I’m seeing his house. I don’t really know what to say. I want to say, If you had that much money, why didn’t you buy something bigger and more updated? Because that would be an obvious first question. But I don’t want to offend him. So I say nothing at all and continue to act as though I’m not bothered by it. Because, in truth, I’m really not bothered by it—I lived in a tiny two-bedroom trailer in a mobile home park for a long time growing up and I’m no stranger to the less extravagant things in life. In fact, I’m more familiar with it than any other lifestyle.
Luke leads me into his living room and his nervousness only seems to grow. Maybe it’s because I haven’t said anything at all.
“I thought you said you didn’t have time to clean?” I finally think of something. My gaze sweeps the area lit only by the gloomy outside light filtering in through the open windows on the far side of the room. I sniff the air. “And it smells like some kind of lemon disinfectant, so somebody’s been cleaning.” I grin at him, and his expression falls under a shroud of blushing guilt.
He did clean this house, that’s a definite, and now all I can envision is Luke running around with a mop and a broom, cleaning the way I think most guys do, by sweeping everything out the front door and stuffing dirty clothes in various hiding places all confused and panicky-like. And the visual is hilarious.
“So you’re one of those,” I accuse in jest.
“One of what?”
“When you know your house is clean, but a guest comes in and you wave your hand about the room”—I wave my hand to demonstrate—“and then say, ‘Please excuse the mess.’ ” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect.
Luke smiles and shakes his head. “OK, you got me. I did clean a little last night.”
“Where’d you sweep the dirt?” I ask.
He points behind me. “Out the front door, of course.”
I laugh. “And I bet your dirty clothes are stuffed under a chair somewhere.”
“Nah,” he says. “I’m super-organized when it comes to laundry.”
That takes me by surprise—now I’m visualizing him folding laundry in a precise manner, turning his washcloths into perfect little squares and rolling his boxers up like fancy dinner napkins, and this too is hilarious. And adorable.
Luke gestures toward his very gently used navy sofa. He still appears a little nervous, but he’s shedding it quickly.