And Mike couldn’t keep the look of awe off his face, no matter how hard he tried. It was a slow bloom, the curve of his lips, the widening of his eyes. The heat to his face, the tripping of his heart. He didn’t think he’d ever seen someone look more handsome in his life than he thought Sean did right at that moment. Any argument he had dried up to dust, and even though from time to time he’d still think he was too old for Sean, he never brought it up again.
He looks away from that picture now, to the young man who sits across from him. He’s got that smile on his face, the one for Mike. Mike can’t help but thank his lucky stars that he’s found someone like him, that he gets to have this—this—this wonderful thing that no one else can have. It’s been a long and winding road, but the slow burn between them has grown into something that Mike will never regret.
But he has to save face somehow. He is a man, after all. “You’re lucky I was a pushover.”
“Like you ever stood a chance,” Sean says, pushing himself up from the table. “Mrs. Richardson knew exactly what she was doing when she told James to accompany me to the park that day.”
“She meddles,” Mike mutters, “in everything.”
“Because she cares. Well, mostly because she cares. Also because she’s a nosy bird who doesn’t keep her beak out of anything.” Sean’s hand is on the back of his head again, fingers scratching against his scalp, and Mike can’t even find the wherewithal to be embarrassed by the low groan that falls from his mouth. “Now, big guy, you’re gonna drink your coffee while I see a man about some pancakes for you. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” Mike says.
“Yeah,” Sean says, and before Mike can process it, he leans down and kisses Mike’s forehead, the barest press of lips against skin. It’s almost like a couple of nights ago when they stood on Sean’s porch and Sean kissed his wrist. Except this is almost unbearable, given the proximity. Mike closes his eyes and breathes through his nose, and Sean’s gone into the kitchen by the time he comes back to himself. He opens his eyes again and sees everyone trying to pretend they didn’t just see what they saw, but the smiles on their faces and the twinkles in all of their eyes give them away.
VIII
HE WAKES to a man in his room.
He’s dreaming, he’s sure of it, which is strange, because for as long as Mike can remember, he hasn’t been able to remember any dreams.
One moment it’s dark, and the next he’s opening his eyes and it’s still dark, but there’s enough light coming in through the window to see the man standing at the foot of his bed.
Martin’s on his chest, purring in fits and starts, like a motor trying to catch. He doesn’t seem bothered by the man in their house, which has to mean Mike’s dreaming.
He isn’t sure if this is supposed to be a bad dream or not.
He tries to move, to recoil.
Nothing happens.
He’s frozen, it seems, but even stranger is the fact that he can’t feel his body, not really. He knows it’s there; he can see it from where his head is propped up on two pillows. But it’s like it’s not there too, because he can’t move his arms. His legs. He tries to wiggle his toes, but nothing happens. His feet remain still.
He tries to speak. Nothing happens.
His eyes, though. His eyes are open and he can move them. He looks back up at the man.
He can see certain features, the beady eyes behind the thinnest pair of frames he’s ever seen. The man’s hair is short and styled strangely, spiked up and wild. He’s wearing a white coat and white pants, and there’s a square tag hanging from one of the coat pockets, but it’s obscured in shadow.
The man is looking down at him.
His eyes roll over Mike, darting up and down his body. He barely meets Mike’s eyes before he’s looking elsewhere.
Mike tries to open his mouth to say something, anything, but his tongue is thick and dry, and he can’t find the strength to get a sound out.
The man reaches down at the foot of the bed and then brings his hand to near the front of his face. There’s nothing in his hand, but he seems to think there is, and he’s looking at it.
Mike doesn’t understand this dream. He doesn’t understand what it means.
The man sighs. “Eyes open,” he says, and his voice is garbled, almost like it’s coming from underwater. “Always with the eyes open.” He sighs again. “You can’t see, can you? None of you can. You’re glazed over. Hollow on the inside. I see you in my garden, you know? You’re brittle and thin and won’t take much to break. You’d break easily, I think. Maybe not as easily as the others, but you would. Because when is a door not a door? When it’s ajar, but also when it’s been blown to pieces and there’s nothing between us.”
He lowers his hand to the foot of the bed again. A moment later, it falls to his side.
Mike’s sure this is a dream. It has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense. But that doesn’t mean he’s not terrified, because even though he knows this is a dream, he knows this isn’t real, there’s that little voice in him, that little, evil voice that says, Yes, but what if it’s not a dream?
Mike Frazier doesn’t usually dream.
But Mike Frazier also doesn’t believe in ghosts, and this has to be one or the other.