And Mike wanted to say you and yes and I think I’ve been looking for you. Instead he said, rather gruffly, “And what would that be?”
“You look like a meatloaf kinda guy,” the man said, taking a step forward. “Side of mashed potatoes. And peas? No. Corn. You look like you’d have corn.”
Mike said, “That… sounds amazing. Yes, please.”
The man looked pleased with himself. “I’m good at what I do.” And then he was standing in front of Mike, within arm’s reach.
“What’s your name?” Mike asked, because he needed to know.
“Sean,” he said, lips quirking again.
“Sean,” Mike repeated, and even three years later, he would still like the sound of Sean’s name on his tongue. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sean said, and Mike thought he was too young, and this wasn’t right, but he also felt like he’d been given a gift of some kind, this great gift thrust into his big callused hands, and he was clumsy, so, so clumsy.
“And you followed me,” Sean says now, eyes bright, “right to this very table.”
Mike shrugs and says, “I’d follow you anywhere,” even though he’d meant to only think it.
Sean blinks at him, slow, like he’s shocked. “You would, wouldn’t you.” It’s not a question.
Mike can’t take it back now. Can’t avoid it, because he’s the one that put it out there. So he says, “Yeah, Sean. Where you go, I go. We’re best friends.”
“And something more,” Sean says, and it’s still not a question. This time, it’s a demand.
“And something more,” Mike says, because he wants it to be. He wants it more than anything else in the world. And he’s tired of holding back.
“Then yes,” Sean says, sliding out of the booth. He moves until he’s next to Mike, and all Mike wants to do is press his face against his stomach and just breathe. “Yes. Saturday. You and me. It’s a date.”
And then the most remarkable thing happens. Sean bends down, hand resting on Mike’s shoulder. Mike doesn’t move, waiting. He feels the kiss on his cheek down to his very bones, Sean’s nose pressing near his ear, Sean’s lips just under his eye. The hand on his shoulder tightens briefly as the kiss goes on and on for what feels like minutes and hours and days.
But then it’s over, and he knows he’s bright red, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about that at all. This is something to him. This is everything to him. This place. His home. This man. So what if he can’t really ever remember a life outside or before Amorea. It must not have been anything special if it’s so easily forgotten. He doesn’t need it. He has everything he needs right here, right now, and it’s enough. Maybe one day it won’t be, but right now it’s enough.
He knows everyone in the diner is watching this latest development, and knows it’ll be spread through the town
even before lunchtime, but that’s okay. He’s still slightly dazed when Sean squeezes his shoulder once more and says he’ll see him later, big guy, and moves toward the kitchen where Oscar’s watching with something that almost resembles a smile.
SURE ENOUGH, it’s not even eleven when the book club enters Bookworm, led by Mrs. Richardson, who is always quick to tell you that she is a missus and never a miss, Mr. Richardson was a great man, a fine man, and he died for his country in the War (though what war, she never says, but it is always the War, the capitalization understood in her inflection), and she will honor him by being Missus Richardson.
The other ladies in the book club are in awe of her, and maybe a little frightened, for every idea she has is the best idea, and every discussion in the book club is led by her, talking points laid out typewritten and neat. She is the book club, or so she told Mike in confidence; those poor dears didn’t know what books even were before she’d led them to the light. Of course, they’d started with the book, the Good Book, but it’s always so morbid, all this death and destruction and smiting and plagues and it’s just not realistic.
Or so Mrs. Richardson said.
So they were delighted when Mike Frazier came to Amorea, delighted when he opened his store to them, delighted when he agreed to host their weekly meetings to discuss literature, because they weren’t common folk, obviously. They were cultured, and by then, Mike had heard enough, and said he was more than willing to let them use Bookworm on Monday afternoons, all the while thinking that there was no possible way he could have said no without having some kind of ladylike wrath brought down upon him. He knew that the ones that acted as the welcoming committee were typically the ones in charge. He didn’t want to start off on their bad sides.
He ate their casseroles and their pies and their muffins without complaint.
But it doesn’t stop him from rolling his eyes just out of sight when he hears them coming into Bookworm on a Thursday, knowing full well what they’re after.
“Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Richardson calls out. “Mike, front and center, if you please.”
He thinks for a brief second of ignoring her, but it’ll be easier to get this over sooner rather than later, because it will happen.
He steps out from his office and sees the book club standing in the middle of his shop. Not a single one of them is perusing the shelves, because they’re not here for that. No, Mrs. Richardson would have made it abundantly clear the moment she got off the phone from hearing the latest juicy gossip about the bookshop owner and the waiter at the diner (most likely called over to her by Oscar himself, the worst gossip of them all). She would have gathered the book club within the hour and made a plan of attack.
There’s five of them, all in their forties, all wearing the prettiest of dresses of varying colors (green and red and blue and yellow and orange) with matching gloves and hats, their purses clutched at their sides. They are well put together, with only the latest fashions at their disposal. But not the extreme latest fashions, Mrs. Richardson assured him once, because they don’t wear pants, oh heavens no, can you even imagine women wearing pants? How loose their morals must be to wear pants. They’re called capris, and she said this with such disdain that Mike almost felt sorry for ever thinking progressively.
Mrs. Richardson eyes him speculatively as he walks out of the office, obviously judging him, as he knew she would. He’s wearing jeans and a plain white shirt, and he’s comfortable, this is what he always wears, but he’s sure she’s wondering just how loose his morals are and he wishes he’d at least thrown on a sweater or a jacket of some kind.