ThenextthingIknow, it’s Saturday morning.
I must have been more exhausted than I realized because when I look at my phone—which I apparently didn’t remember to plug in and only has two percent battery left—I frown at the time. Somehow, I managed to sleep fortwelvehours. Fuck.
I flop back on the bed with a groan and stare groggily at the ceiling, trying to remember what I had planned on doing today.
It’s gloomy outside, and glancing out of my bedroom window at the gray sky, I see it’s raining; pouring hard enough that I can hear it hitting the roof. That’s unusual for early August, but I can’t say we didn’t need it. However, it also means I can’t go outside and do the yard work I’ve been putting off for the better part of two weeks.
Aw gee,what a shame. Whatever shall I do with myself on such a perfect—I mean,dreary—day? Guess I have no choice but to sit inside and read instead. Curse you, Mother Nature!
Sighing contentedly, I roll over onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow. The sound of the rain is soothing, and my bed is so comfortable that I could easily fall asleep again. Butthen my stomach grumbles, and I realize I forgot to eat dinner last night somewhere between coming home and collapsing into oblivion.
I reluctantly drag myself upright, only to notice I’m still wearing my work clothes from yesterday. Apparently, pajamas were also very low on my list of priorities. It’s a wonder I even made it to bed at all.
With a groan, I run my hands through my hair and over my face, trying to banish the tiredness I still feel.
Embracing the plan to go full-on cozy, I change into gray sweatpants and my softest University of Michigan hoodie. It’s warm and smells pleasantly of laundry detergent, floral, and clean. I pull the collar up to my nose, breathing in deeply, and my eyes close as old memories resurface of doing laundry with my parents as a kid.
There’s nothing quite like having a pile of freshly dried towels dumped on your head, the combination of warmth and the smell of laundry-fresh spring forever etched in my brain as a core memory. I can’t help but smile as I remember how often they did that to me growing up and how much I loved it.
As I walk into my bathroom, I flip on the light and wince slightly at the sudden brightness, almost as if I’m hungover. Then I wince again at the sight of the train wreck that is my face in the mirror. Jesus, I look rough. Dark circles lie under my eyes, and my hair is standing up at odd ends that don’t seem to want to go flat no matter how hard I try to push it down. Typical.
However, while I’m in the middle of judging my reflection, my brain goes off with an intrusive thought out of nowhere:Luke Shaw thinks I’m attractive.
I recoil slightly, blinking at myself in the mirror with confusion. Where the hell didthatjust come from? And why did my stomach decide to somersault? Did my heart skip a beat? Great. That’s normal, right? Certainly nothing to worry about.Although, with how often that’s happened this week, maybe I should schedule an appointment with a cardiologist to be sure…
My mind wanders back to Luke’s comment. It’s strange, but I’ve never considered myself attractive or unattractive before. Marcus was always the lady-killer in my friend group, with his dark, brooding eyes and lush, curly brown hair. He has the kind of face that naturally attracts people to him, and trying to garner a woman’s attention while standing next to him in a room is about as effective as staring at the sun, trying to see past its radiance.
I’ve never had issues pulling women in the past, but I always assumed that was because of my above-average height rather than any specific looks. In my experience, a crap ton of women weirdly idolize tall men, and I’ve towered over most people since eighth grade. Take that away, and I’m only tolerable at best—nothing to write home about.
But now, it’s as if Luke’s compliment has opened my eyes to the possibility that I might be more than that. Coming from someone who looks likehim? That has to mean something, right?
We’ve already established that I’m not gay, and he wasn’t hitting on me. And yet, I can’t help studying my face more closely, trying to see what intrigued him.
I frown at the awkward tufts of wavy dark brown hair on my head and wonder if it’s time to get a haircut. My eyes are the least exciting shade of brown I’ve seen, so unless Luke likes staring at mud, that can’t be it. Then there’s the scruffy beard on my chin that I haven’t trimmed in a while, making me feel like a drunkard coming off a bender. I rub my hand along my jaw and sigh. Maybe Luke was just being polite.
Rolling my eyes, I groan and shake my head. Who am I kidding? It’s not like it matters whether or not he was lying. I am a markedly straight man, and there is no scenario wherehis opinion of my appearance would change that undeniably important fact.
I try to put it out of my mind as I wash my face and brush my teeth. Then I flick the light off and head downstairs.
After plugging my phone in on the kitchen counter to charge, I make a pot of coffee and start on breakfast. Frying up some bacon and eggs, I lay everything on a slice of avocado toast. It’s not precisely Instagram-worthy, but throw on some hot sauce, cheese, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes, and it’s the most delicious-looking stereotypical millennial breakfast I can make.
I tried it once a few years ago as a joke because the guys at the shop were making fun of ‘millennials and their avocado toast,’ but I wasn’t prepared for how damn good it would be. I’m not ashamed to say it awoke something in me, and I haven’t been able to go back on it since. I don’t care how the guys might rag on me, but I will vouch for every single person who loves it unironically. Fucking fight me.
Again, I’m not sure where it comes from, but while I’m sitting at the counter eating, midway through a bite, my brain decides it’s time for my next intrusive thought of the morning:Luke thought I was like Frank Owens.
I can’t help but groan loudly, cringing at the very notion.Me? Mistaken to resemble that literal monster? It’s absolutely obscene, and I’m instantly angry. How could anyone ever believe that Frank-God-Damn-Owens and I might haveanythingin common? It annoys me enough that there was even a moment in Luke’s mind where I was remotely comparable to Frank that I can’t help but reach for my phone to text him. I compose a message.
E: I need to know what it was about me that made you think I was like Frank so I can make sure never to do it again.
My hand hovers over the send button as I try to decide if this is even worth asking. Does it sound too desperate? Like I care too much about what he thinks of me, or that I’m insecure about how I might come across to people?
Chewing on my lower lip, I grunt before deleting the entire message, dropping the phone face down on the counter. Come on, Ethan. Let it go.
Suddenly, there’s a ding from an incoming text, and my heart soars through my chest.Shit!Did I accidentally send something to Luke? Or did he somehow read my mind and know that I was considering texting him?
I pick up the phone and stare at the screen with trepidation, only to feel like an idiot two seconds later. It’s a text from Marcus. Of course, Luke wouldn’t text me. Why would he? But why does it feel like I’m disappointed? Like I wanted him to. It’s weird, but I shake my head and pull up the thread with Marcus.
M: Lucky’s tonight? Meeting the guys at 6.
