He says, “Oscar?” in a voice he barely recognizes as his own. It trembles. It’s uncertain.
All he hears is the call of the bird. The flickering hiss of the Tiki torches.
He thinks, Maybe I just hallucinated this whole thing. Maybe I just got drunk and Oscar already went home and here I am, stumbling over furniture near the middle of the night. I’m drunk and busted my nose over nothing.
Except Oscar’s cigar is still sitting there on the table.
It’s burning, the tip glowing orange.
The smoke is still curling up.
Mike is a rational man. He thinks from a rational place. He understands rational things.
Nothing about this is rational.
Because he knows Occam’s razor. He knows that the simplest explanation is the best.
It’s simple, really.
Either he’s so drunk for the first time in his life that he hallucinated an entire conversation with someone who wasn’t there.
Or Oscar Johnson disappeared in front of him.
He thinks, I am a rational man. I come from a rational place.
But that little voice says, Are you? Do you? If you come from a rational place as a rational man, Mike, then go to the mountains. Right now. Go to the mountains. Get up, pound pavement and go to the—
The thought never finishes because an alarm starts to bray, louder than anything he’s ever heard. He slams his hand over his ears and it hurts, everything hurts, and he thinks he hears voices above the alarm, voices shouting out in warning, but he can’t be sure. He wants Oscar. He wants to get to the mountains. He wants Sean. He wants Sean. He wants—
VII
IT’S A beautiful Friday morning when Mike Frazier opens his eyes, his alarm ringing in his ear. It’s louder than normal and sounds a little different, but he’s probably just tired. He hits the button on the top with a groan, and the clock falls silent.
His head is a little stuffy today. He must have drunk an extra beer at poker night last night without even realizing it. It happens, sometimes. He’s allowed to indulge.
Nothing a hot shower and an even hotter cup of coffee won’t fix.
Martin’s tail is flicking back and forth as Mike pulls himself out of bed.
It’s not until he’s in the shower that he remembers what tomorrow is. He doesn’t even try to hide the smile. There’s no one there to see it, after all.
THERE’S A spring in his step, to be sure, as he walks down the sidewalk. He’s wearing his usual jeans and shirt, but he’s got a button-up over the tee, a blue one that Sean likes on him. Says it makes him look handsome, brings out his eyes. Sean laughed when Mike flushed and averted his eyes, saying, “Take the compliment, big guy. Trust me on that one.”
He’s in the door, the bell ringing overhead, before he stops and grins at the sight.
Donald, Calvin, and Happy are all there, groaning as they sit at the lunch counter, heads in their hands. Happy looks the worst, a little green around the gills, skin pale and smudg
es of black under his eyes.
Sean is there too, standing in front of them, hands on the counter, a look of gleeful amusement on his face. He glances up toward the door at the sound of the bell, the smile on his face softening to the one he only has for Mike. Mike’s heart does the little dance in his chest that it always does.
People call out to Mike in greeting from the booths as he heads for the counter. He nods at them, knowing Sean hasn’t looked away. He’s at the counter, standing next to Donald, by the time he looks back up, meeting Sean’s gaze.
“Hey,” he says softly.
“Hey,” Sean says. “I’ll be honest. I was expecting you to look a little like these sad sacks here when you walked in. I’m a little disappointed.”
“Really,” Mike says, leaning forward just a little.