by T. J. Klune
And if it isn’t, well. He doesn’t want to think about that part.
But.
If it isn’t fine, someone in Amorea will know what to do.
II
HE TRIES to temper his expectations as he nears the top of the hill. For all he knows, Amorea could be miles away. Or empty. Or it could be burnt to the ground. He’s trying not the think of the fact that, aside from seeing the horse and hearing the birds, he hasn’t yet seen another sign of life on the road. No cars out for a leisurely drive. No people out for a walk on a beautiful summer morning. Aside from the sign, there’s been no evidence of anyone else at all.
But that’s silly, he tells himself. There have to be others.
He pauses right before he crests the hill, steeling himself.
Because what if?
He learns he’s not a fan of the what if.
At this rate, he’ll know everything there is to know about himself by nightfall.
He tells himself to just do it, just take those last steps.
He almost doesn’t.
He almost turns around, because what if?
But he can’t. Not when he’s this close.
He takes the final steps to the top of the hill.
And there, on the other side, is Amorea.
He can see it amongst the trees, nestled in the foothills of a small mountain range that rises in the background, the peaks dusted with snow, and it’s summer, he knows it’s summer, and everything is so green and alive, but the snow is there, perfectly capping the tips in white.
The town itself is made up of buildings that stretch along a main thoroughfare. He’s still too far away to make them out individually, but he can see the awnings that are fitted over doorways, the small, ornate streetlamps that line the sidewalk on either side of the road and that he knows, he just knows will have garlands and wreaths hanging from them come Christmas. There’s a strange shiver of hope that crawls through him, wanting to see that happen, wanting this place to be where he’s from.
Farther into the trees outside of the main street are houses nestled into small neighborhoods, and for a moment, he thinks how odd it is that he can’t see any cars, that no one is driving, but it’s gone when he looks closer and sees people walking on the sidewalks. In and out of the shops under the awnings. In the neighborhoods.
He starts down the other side of the hill.
IT HAPPENS the moment before he crosses into Amorea.
He can see the town now, can hear the people. He can read the signs above the awnings, the striped awnings that are green and blue and white and red. The signs say things like Happy’s General Store and Valley Food and Drug and Bookworm. There’s a movie theater with a marquee that’s lit up, even in the daytime, and an old-fashioned diner with a neon sign that reads simply that: Diner.
He thinks idyllic and charming, and wants nothing more than to be in this place. It’s like a hook has buried itself far into his brain and is pulling him toward Amorea, pulling him along and he can do nothing but follow it.
He’s in the middle of a thought when it happens.
He thinks, I’ll go to the diner first, maybe. I’m hungry. I’m really hungry. I bet they have meatloaf in there. With mashed potatoes. There will be pie for dessert, fresh pie that they’ll serve with coffee and it’ll be safe and warm and I’ll—
There is the screech of metal crumpling, of glass shattering around him. For the briefest of moments, there is a scorching pain that rips through him, his skull feeling like it’s imploding. There’s a voice in his head, and it’s saying, Oh my god, this is it, this is it, this is it, and he’s just nailed with a dizzying sense of vertigo, like the ground has been pulled out from under his feet and he’s spinning upside down, falling up and falling down, and he feels wet, like he’s being splashed with water, and he’s in pain, so much pain, and he can feel his blood pouring out from him and he can’t breathe and everything is spinning round and round and round and—
And it just… stops.
He’s staggered forward across the town line into Amorea.
There is no collapsing metal.
There is no breaking glass.
He is not upside down, feet pointed toward the sky.
The pain fades, as if it were never there at all.
He has not been sliced open.
He is not bleeding.
He looks up.
And it hits him.
His name is Mike Frazier.
He’s thirty-six years old.
He’s a large man, a strong man. He has dark auburn hair, full and wavy, tucked loosely behind his ears. He has a full beard that needs to be trimmed. He sunburns easily, and in fact can already feel the thin stretch of heat on his skin. He has five freckles on his right cheek that make the shape of the Big Dipper. He has big hands that know kindness.
He’s a good man. Or, at least, he tries to be.
He lives in Amorea.
He has a little house.
He has an old crusty cat named Martin.
He works at the bookstore.
He likes people. He knows everyone in town.
He has friends. Good friends. Even best friends.
There’s one he puts above all others. Just the thought of him makes him flush, his heart tripping all over itself. He needs to finally work up the courage to do something about it before everyone else tries to meddle.
He likes many things. Listening to radio serials. Pulling weeds in his sorry excuse for a garden. Shooting the shit at the diner while trying not to stare too hard at the man moving in between the tables, a devilish smile on his face. He also likes reading and sitting out on the back patio in the sun and watching the stars come out at night.
He’s lived in Amorea for a very long time.
In fact, he can’t think of a time he didn’t live in Amorea.
He’s safe here.
He’s happy here.
He loves everything about this place because it’s home. The people here are home.
Mike Frazier breathes in deep the air of the town he loves and promptly forgets every moment he spent outside of Amorea. Like a dream, it fades the moment he comes awake.
MIKE SHAKES his head as he walks toward the bookstore, wondering how time got away from him this morning. The clock outside of the bank has its hands pointed just this side of noon, and he’s a little embarrassed. He doesn’t know why he wasn’t at the bookstore right at eight, when most of the businesses open in Amorea. Sean is probably wondering why he didn’t stop in for his morning cup of coffee. He hopes Sean didn’t worry too much. He hates when Sean worries about him. He’ll stop by later and—
There’s a note on the door of the bookstore, slid into the space between slats and the glass of the window. He sees a familiar scrawl and he can’t help but smile at the sight of it. He plucks the note from the door and reads:
Hey. Didn’t see you this morning. Everything okay? You probably slept in, lazy bones. If that’s the case, you earned it. Come see me later.
It’s not signed, but doesn’t need to be. He knows who it’s from.
He’s about to push open the door (for a moment thinking, What if it’s locked? which is an odd thought because doors in Amorea are never locked), when a friendly voice calls out, “Mike!”
He looks up with a grin.
It’s Happy of Happy’s General Store fame, a barrel of a man in his sixties with a sloping gut and great tufts of white hair sticking out haphazardly from the top of his head. He’s dressed today as he usually is, in wrinkled tan slacks and a stiff white collared shirt, open at the throat with little wiry hairs curling out. A black apron sits on his front, cinched back around his middle. It says only Happy in embroidered red lettering.
“Happy,” Mike says in greeting.
“Just getting in, then?” Happy asks, holding his hand out for a shake. It’s a good grip, a firm grip, and it’s three pumps as per the usual before Happy pulls his hand away.
“Looks like,” Mike says.
“Everything okay?”
And Mike… well. Mike frowns. “Sure,” he says while thinking, It is, right?
Happy nods. “Just… it’s just that you’ve never been late before, and I guess I was worried.”
“Yeah, I was….” And he trails off because he was what? He can’t quite remember what he was doing to be late this morning, but he’s sure he was doing something. There’s the briefest remnants of a headache, and he remembers having a beer last night with dinner. Maybe he had a couple more after that? He doesn’t drink to excess, not usually. But it’s hazy.
Happy waits, brow furrowing slightly.
Mike says, “Took the morning off,” because Happy is waiting for some kind of answer and Mike has to give one. People have already noticed. He has evidence of it in the note in his hand.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that,” Happy says, face relaxing. “Everyone should get a bit of a lie-in every now and then.”
And any unease Mike feels is gone at that, because he doesn’t really have a headache, now, does he? It’s like the ghost of one, and maybe he can’t quite remember what he did this morning or when he got up or if he remembered to feed Martin, but that’s okay. It’s not like he was blackout drunk. He’s not as young as he used to be. It’s possible that time just… slipped.
“We still on for the poker game tomorrow night?” Happy asks.
Mike nods. “Thursday as always. We’re at my house this week, right?”
“Oh sure,” Happy says. “You gonna make beans and weenies?”
Mike chuckles. “Always do for you, Happy.”
“Good man,” Happy says, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll let you get to it, then. Just wanted to make sure everythin’ was all right. You should probably stop in and see that fella of yours. I know he was worried when you didn’t come in this morning.”
“He’s not my fella,” Mike says, though he knows he’s flushing brightly. It’s the Irish curse, something he’s never been able to escape.
Happy rolls his eyes. “Don’t we all know it. You’re sure takin’ your sweet time. Reminds me of my own courtin’ days, when we pretended to be all innocent about things. You two are slower than molasses.”
“It’s just,” he says. Then, “It works. For us. We have time. Slow and steady, I guess.”
“That right?” Happy says. “Well, I’ll be a pig in shit. Any slower, you two’d be goin’ backward.”
Mike groans. “Happy.”
“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—”
Oscar snorts. “Keep telling yourself that, Mikey. See how good it gets you. Damn fool kids.” Like they aren’t only a few years apart in age. Then it goes muffled and Mike hears Oscar shout for Sean, voice hoarse but strong. There’s some hollering back at him and Mike knows the people in the diner are laughing and hooting at Sean. It’s how it always goes when Mike calls. It’s even worse when he’s there. It’s almost like they want this… this thing between him and Sean almost as much as Mike does.
The phone changes hands and Mike hears Sean tell Oscar he’s got it, to get out and give him some privacy. Oscar retorts that it’s his kitchen, but anyone could hear the fondness in his voice. It’s well known, the soft spot Oscar Johnson has for Sean Mellgard.
“Hello?” Sean says into the phone, like he doesn’t know who it is, like it’s a question, and Mike doesn’t even try and stop the warm feeling burning in his chest.
“Hey,” he says, scuffing the toe of his Chucks against the carpet. He feels oddly shy in these little moments, like he’s unsure about what to say.
But Sean’s voice is sweet when he says, “Hey there. We mi
ssed you this morning.”
Mike clears his throat and says, “We?”
Sean laughs softly, and it’s a sound Mike never gets tired of hearing. “I,” he says. “Me. I missed you this morning.”
“Yeah,” Mike says. “Me too.” Because he did, and there’s this strange and sudden urge that fills him to flip the sign from Open to Closed and to make his way across the street and just sit at the lunch counter, watching Sean as he moves between all the tables. But he doesn’t, because he was late this morning, and that’s going to be his punishment.
Sean hums his agreement, because he knows Mike gets awkward when feelings are brought up. “You okay?”
And it should irk him, grate a little bit that he can’t even take the morning off without everyone assuming something’s wrong. But it’s Sean, and he could never be mad at him. Not for this. “Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah,” Sean teases him.
“Sorry,” Mike says, running a hand over his face. He really needs to trim his beard. “Just been a weird morning.”
“How’s that?”
“Don’t rightly know,” Mike says. “Just one of those days.”
“You can have those,” Sean says.
“Can I?”
“Cheeky,” Sean says, and Mike can hear the smile in his voice. It’s not the devilish smile he has for most others. It’s not the soft one he gets when he sees a dog. It’s not even the one he gets when he’s excited about something, hands flailing as he works himself up. No, this smile is the one solely reserved for Mike Frazier. It’s soft and quiet and filled with wonder, and whenever Mike sees it, whenever it’s directed toward him, his mouth dries up and his tongue feels thick. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up.