“Yeah, yeah,” Happy says, waving his hand at Mike as he turns back toward his shop. “Just don’t be surprised if the ladies around town try to push it along. You know how they feel about this kind of thing.”
He does. He knows that very well. So well, in fact, that every time the book club meets at his store on Monday afternoons, discussions about Wuthering Heights or Rebecca fall by the wayside as the ladies of Amorea prod and needle him about Sean Mellgard, cooing when he blushes and stutters over what to say.
It’s just… it’s nice. What they have now. And both of them know where they’re headed. Mike figures it’s not about the destination, but the journey there. He’s good with the way things are now. They’re good.
Which isn’t to say he doesn’t worry, because he does. Sometimes. He worries he might be moving too slow, even for Sean. He worries that maybe what he can offer right now isn’t enough. He doesn’t know quite how to say this, doesn’t know how to put it into words, but sometimes he doesn’t have to, because Sean is there with a hand on his arm and that little smile on his face he gets when he knows. Sean knows him. Probably better than anyone.
They’ll get there.
He sighs as he opens the door to Bookworm, the shop he’s owned for… a long time. He tries not to think about how long, because that usually gives him headaches, and if he’s just been getting over one, he doesn’t want to help it.
The bell at the top of the door jingles lightly overhead. He flips on the lights to the shop, even though they might not be necessary, given the sunlight that filters in through the front windows.
Bookworm smells like it usually does, paper and ink and dust, and it’s comforting to him. He knows this place, and any unease he’s felt about his hazy morning slips away as he turns the sign in the window to Open.
He thinks about waiting until later, but he’s still got the note in his hand, that sweet little note with the handwriting he knows so well. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants to hear Sean’s voice, just to say hey and hi and I didn’t mean to worry you. He’ll pop over later when he’s closed for the day, but that’s still hours away.
He picks up the green handset and slips through the rotary dial with a practiced ease, the number familiar. It’s PY6-0520 and he puts the handset to his ear, listening to the chirping through the line as it goes across the street and down a few doors. He knows what it sounds like, that phone in the diner, it’s a bright and blaring ring, given that it needs to be heard above all of the hubbub of the kitchen and the patrons themselves.
It’s Oscar who answers, the owner and head cook. He’s a gruff black man with wild and bushy eyebrows already going gray even though he’s barely older than Mike. He’s also one of the regulars in the weekly poker game, and even though he’s intimidating as all hell, it’s all on the outside. He actually does give two shits about most things.
It’s funny, Mike thinks, because that could be said about almost everyone in Amorea. It really is a wonderful place.
“Yeah,” Oscar growls in greeting.
“Hey, Oscar.”
“Mikey,” Oscar says, voice softening considerably. “How you been?”
“All right.”
“Yeah? You got some of us thinking about you this morning when you didn’t come in.”
“Oh, Oscar, you miss me that much?” Mike teases.
“Fuck off with all that nonsense,” Oscar says. “I ain’t got no time for your shit.”
“Jive talk,” Mike says, because he can get away with it.
“Yeah, yeah,” Oscar says. “But seriously. You all right?”
“Fine,” Mike says, and he almost believes it. “Long night.”
“That insomnier thing?”
“Insomnia,” Mike corrects gently. “Maybe. Never did sleep much. Just needed a little more this morning.”
“You check yourself with Doc,” Oscar said, voice firm. “Make sure it’s not nothing else.”
Mike says, “Yeah, sure, Oscar,” because if he doesn’t, everyone will be hounding him within a week—the ladies in the book club, the rest of Amorea. Sean will frown at him, and Mike hates it when Sean frowns at him. Doc will eventually show up on his doorstep or at the store, and it’s just easier to get it done and over with.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You wanna talk to your boy?”
“He’s not my—”