“Now, like I said, I think I know what you’re looking for.”
And he wants to say you and yes and I’ve been looking for you for so long. Instead, he says, rather gruffly, “And what would that be?”
“You look like a meatloaf kinda guy,” the man says, taking a step forward. “Side of mashed potatoes. And peas? No. Corn. You look like you’d have corn.”
He swallows thickly and prays for any sign of recognition, any sign of something. He plays his part and says, “That… sounds amazing.”
The man looks pleased with himself. “I’m good at what I do.” And then he’s standing within arm’s reach, and it’s so hard not to do that, to grab him, to pull him close and never let go.
“I know,” he says instead.
“You do?”
“I’ve heard.”
The young man looks amused. “People talk.”
“Yes.”
He laughs. “I’ve heard too, you know. About you. Your name’s Greg, right? Greg Hughes.”
And he says, “No.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “No?”
“No,” he says, and he can barely breathe. “My name’s Mike. Mike Frazier.”
“Mike,” he says, like he’s tasting it. “Mike Frazier. I wonder why they said you were…. You know what? Never mind. Mike. It’s a good name.”
And Mike says, “Yeah,” and he thinks, I will spend as long as it takes. I promise. Because I did everything I could to get back to you. I promise you. One day, we’ll dance. I’m sorry I had to miss it the first time, but I promise. We’ll dance.
And there it is. Again, for the first time. That smile. That just-for-Mike smile. It takes Mike’s breath away at the sight of it. It always has. And he thinks it always will.
“What’s your name?” Mike asks, even though he knows this man better than he knows himself. It’s expected of him to ask.
“Sean,” he says. “My name’s Sean.”
“Sean.” Mike puts the weight of everything behind it. He thinks of the first time their shoulders brushed together, the first time they laughed at a joke, the first time they fell asleep side by side on the couch listening to the radio, the first time they held hands, the first time they sat on the dock in the park, the first day, the first kiss, the time they made love, the just-for-Mike smile, the way they fit together like they were made for each other and only each other.
Sean says, “You okay there, big guy?”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “I’m okay.” Because he is. For the first time in a long time, he is. He has blood on his hands and there is a body buried in the forest, but he’s okay now. He’s okay.
“Good. Tell you what. I’ve got a booth just for you. You can sit, relax, and let me take care of you. Sound good?”
He nods, not trusting himself to speak.
“All right, if you could just follow—you know what?” He shakes his head. “Sorry.” He’s blushing now and reaches up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I’ve just….”
“What?” Mike asks.
“Déjà vu. Like… I don’t know. You ever get that feeling?”
“What?” Mike asks, and he’s hoping. God, how he’s hoping. “What feeling?”
Sean looks up at him, then away, then back again. “I’m… this is going to sound strange, and I swear, I’m not trying to… just. Have we met before? You seem really… familiar to me. Like….”
“Like…?” Mike manages to say, and his heart hurts, but it’s good, okay? Oh god, it’s so good.