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.
“Sit down wherever you want.”
I take a seat on the center cushion without any hesitation. With a smile, I look around some more. Up at the ceiling and then the walls and then the large flat-screen television mounted across the room from me, surrounded by a small entertainment center with two speakers on either side, and a stereo, movie player, and satellite box underneath, sitting atop an oak stand. Two framed posters stare back at me from different walls, one of the biggest moss-and grass-covered cliffs I think I’ve ever seen surrounded by a yellow-orange mist and a mountain backdrop. Two figures sit atop the cliff looking out at the world. The other poster is of a guy in some kind of sports gear that I can’t recall having ever seen before. It looks like an oversized ad of sorts.
The entire space is airy with all of the windows open and the breeze pushing through the screens. I see that just beyond the open kitchen area there’s a screen door that opens out onto a lanai, which overlooks the beach a few yards away. The house might need a lot of repairs, but being that close to the ocean more than makes up for it.
“I’ve got beer, water, and V8 juice,” Luke calls out from the kitchen. “The V8 is Seth’s, but if you like that kind of stuff you’re welcome to it.”
I shudder at the thought of drinking a bunch of vegetables. “Water is good.”
He comes in carrying two bottles of water and hands me one. “So I know you’re probably wondering about the house,” he says, sitting down next to me on the sofa.
“No … not really,” I lie and take a sip just to fend off the awkwardness.
Luke grins, takes a drink from his water, and sets the bottle on the coffee table stained by years of wet-bottomed glasses. “So you’re one of those,” he says, getting me back for earlier.
“One of what?”
“Itching to ask certain questions, but afraid to offend.”
I shrug and take another sip.
“Hey, you can’t offend me,” he says. “Go on. Ask.”
My eyes stray toward the bottle in my hands, until finally I work up the courage.
“Well, not that there’s anything wrong with your house”—I lock eyes with him to point out how much I mean that—“but if I had millions I might’ve gone a different way.” I take another nervous sip, not feeling very good about how that came out, after all.
“I did in the beginning,” he says. “Owned a big house about an hour from here, but later sold it.” He pats the sofa arm with the palm of his hand. “This place feels much more like home than the other one did. You don’t like it?”
I shake my head rapidly. “No, that’s not it at all,” I say. “I actually like this house. It’s adorable.”
He laughs gently.
Then he stands up and takes my hand.
“Let me show you the rest of the place,” he says, and I follow.
It doesn’t take long to see the other rooms: the kitchen, the bathroom, and then a quick peek into his room, but he doesn’t offer for me to go inside, probably because he doesn’t want me to get the wrong idea. And instead of letting me see inside Seth’s room across the hall from his, he points at the door and tells me whose it is.
The last room he shows me is the biggest room of the three, covered in his paintings from ceiling to floor on every wall and stacked against them on top of one another in disarray, all different sizes and landscapes that each take my breath away. Paint is all over the floor and the walls and even on the ceiling. A few different size easels are folded and propped against the closet door, one easel with a painting half-finished sits in the center of the room. It’s easily the messiest room in the house, but also the most inspiring and certainly the most beautiful.