Craig
THEY ROLLED past the Welcome to Hannibal sign and into the quaint old-fashioned town just after 11:00 a.m., and Craig was starving. The candy bar he’d eaten had barely made a dent in his hunger. He gave a sidelong glance over to Mitchell and sighed. His friend had been quiet for the last half hour or so. Something was on his mind and he wasn’t telling Craig about it.
He’d hoped that this trip—this time spent together—would give him the chance to show Mitchell how he felt about him. But something felt awkward between them. Something was off, and Craig couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Want to grab some lunch before we head off on the tour?”
Mitchell nodded but stayed quiet—his gaze out the passenger window taking in the small town.
“Can you check your phone for a restaurant? Wasn’t there a diner or something we saw when we were looking at the Mark Twain info?”
Mitchell’s eyes lit up when he glanced over at Craig. “That’s right. Becky Thatcher’s Diner. It’s on….” He paused and pulled out his phone. “On Third Street. Turn off here.” He pointed at the next turn.
Craig easily found the diner and passed it as he turned into a side street to park. Within minutes they were standing in front a modest redbrick building with the name of the restaurant painted across the front window. A small red metal bench sat just next to the door.
“Looks pretty tiny,” Craig said, peering inside.
Mitchell shrugged. “Small town. Come on.” He inclined his head toward the door. “I’m hungry.”
Craig reached over and opened the single glass door before Mitchell could grab the handle and moved back to let him go first. His best friend looked at him oddly but proceeded inside. Craig fought back the desire to put his hand on Mitchell’s back. They weren’t on a goddamned date. Get your head together.
He followed Mitchell inside, and they were instantly transported back in time. From the black-top bar that ran the entire length on one side, to the red vinyl swivel barstools and retro laminate-top square tables with matching black vinyl chairs, it seemed they had stepped into a 1950s movie. Elvis sang “Jailhouse Rock” through speakers from the ceiling as Craig and Mitchell stood upon black-and-white-checked linoleum.
The plain white walls were adorned with the typical photos and local award plaques normally found in a small diner. Large red metal letters spelling out the word EAT hung on the wall closest to the entrance. Gray-and-white-vinyl booths lined the wall opposite the bar, and Mitchell strode down the narrow aisle to an empty one. Craig followed, trying not to stare at his friend’s cute ass.
Craig and Mitchell each slid into the booth on opposite sides. Before they could blink, two menus encased in plastic were placed on the table. An older woman with short gray hair held an order pad and smiled down at them.
“Welcome to Becky Thatcher’s. What can I get you to drink while you look over the menu?” She pulled a pencil from behind her ear as she waited for their answer.
Mitchell pointed at a small cooler with the name Fitz’s splashed across the top. The clear glass door showcased bottles of soda. “What’s Fitz’s?”
The waitress chuckled. “You boys ain’t from here, are you?”
“Kansas City,” Craig offered.
“Well, I’m surprised you haven’t heard of Fitz’s. It’s the best darn soda there is. Made right here in Missouri! You like root beer?”
They both nodded, caught up in her enthusiasm.
“Try that. You’ll love it.”
Mitchell raised his eyebrows and looked across the narrow table at him, so Craig shrugged. “Sure, put us down for two.”
She left to get their drinks and they took a moment to decide on lunch. The menu boasted they sold breakfast all day, and Craig smiled. “You’re going to get the Mustang Sally’s French Toast, aren’t you?”
Mitchell looked up, surprise in his eyes. “How did you know?”
Craig laughed. “Seriously?” He playfully kicked him under the table. “You only talk about your mother’s french toast every time we go to a diner. I’m surprised you haven’t written a sonnet about it yet.”
Mitchell blushed and kicked him back but left his foot pressing against his. Interesting.
His best friend did indeed order the french toast, so Craig decided to follow suit and go along with the whole breakfast-for-lunch thing and ordered a ham-and-cheese omelet with hash browns.
The waitress left them each an icy cold bottle of root beer, and Mitchell grabbed his and took a long drink. Craig was fascinated by the way his Adam’s apple moved and couldn’t tear his gaze away from Mitchell’s neck.
“Craig?”
Shit. Busted. His cheeks heated as he stared across the table at Mitchell and tried to school his expression. “Yeah?”
“You okay? You looked a thousand miles away.” Mitchell raised his right eyebrow and watched him.
Craig always wondered how he did that. He couldn’t raise just one eyebrow. He’d tried, but it always ended up being both.
“Craig?”
Fuck. His mind was wandering. He grabbed his bottle and gulped down some soda before responding. “Sorry.” He set the soda back on the table. “Guess I was just zoning out.”
“Good root beer.”
Craig met Mitchell’s gaze and nodded. “Yeah.”
Mitchell narrowed his eyes. “Out with it.”
Craig’s heart stammered. “Out with what?”
“For fuck’s sake, you’re acting weird, Craig. Do you not want to go on this trip? Remember, this was your idea, not mine.”
Damn. Mitchell sounded irritated. Looked it too. Craig needed to get his shit together. He’d planned it out so carefully. They would spend time together and he’d work hard to show his best friend that he could be more than just a friend. He searched for something to say, but the words weren’t there—he was a total blank. Not for the first time, he wished he had Mitchell’s gift for words.
Mitchell slid out of the booth, furrowing his brow. “Hopefully you’ll start talking when I get back.”
Mitchell made his way to the men’s room, and Craig’s whole body heated when he realized he was watching Mitchell’s ass. Again. But damn, it was hard not to notice. He was so goddamned sexy, it nearly killed Craig at the apartment. Especially when Mitchell walked around in only boxers.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment his feelings for his friend had changed, but sometime over the last year he’d started looking at Mitchell as a lover. Well, a potential lover. Hell, they’d never held hands or even kissed. Mitchell had never given any indication he felt anything more for Craig than friendship, but that didn’t stop Craig from hoping.
The last year had been torture, but when he’d realized they were moving to opposite sides of the country, Craig had known he had to make his move. It was funny, really. When he’d accepted the job in California, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Mitchell wouldn’t be with him. Somehow, whenever he looked at his future, Mitchell was there. Always.
It wasn’t until Mitchell took the job in West Virginia that it had finally dawned on him they wouldn’t be together anymore. Sheer panic had overtaken him then, and he’d hidden in his room for a couple of days, playing it off as studying. But what he’d really been doing was rethinking his life and concocting a plan to show Mitchell they were meant to be together. A future without Mitchell wasn’t anything Craig even wanted to consider.
So he had to make a move—come clean about his feelings. If Mitchell turned him down, he’d survive. It would be difficult and heartbreaking, but he’d move to California and lick his wounds. He was sure he’d never find a man he wanted as much as Mitchell, so he tried not to dwell on the possibility.
Craig had only begun to accept that he was bisexual in the last couple of years. He’d struggled with it at first. And then he’d gone a little crazy with the whole anonymous-sex thing. Once that period of his life ended, he’d settled down and tried to date a few men, but it never went anywhere. As he grew older, he’d found he was more attracted to men than women, although the attraction to Mitchell had been unexpected. Once he’d gotten over the surprise, Craig had realized it made sense. Mitchell embodied everything he’d ever wanted in a partner. He was incredibly smart and when they talked, Mitchell stimulated Craig’s mind. They could talk for hours. That he was sexy as hell was a bonus. When he looked at Craig with those chocolate-brown eyes, Craig melted. Craig wanted to run his fingers through all those dark brown shaggy layers and then trail his fingers over every inch of Mitchell’s caramel skin, but he held back. He fought the desire every day.
And now the time had come. They were moving on and it was now or never. He needed to see if they had a chance. Needed to convince Mitchell.
Their food arrived just as Mitchell took his seat and they both dug in.
“You going to tell me what’s on your mind?”
Craig froze. He’d hoped Mitchell had forgotten. He shook his head. “Nothing on my mind. Just probably zoning from driving so much.” Lame and he knew it.
Mitchell shrugged, clearly letting his friend off the hook for now. “Where to first?”
Craig looked at his phone. “We’re less than a mile from Mark Twain’s boyhood home. We could just walk over right after lunch.”
Mitchell grinned. “Sounds great.” He dug into his french toast.
They ate in silence for the most part, enjoying the retro-homey feel of the restaurant. Craig wasn’t sure what was going through Mitchell’s mind, but he was just trying to keep himself from reaching across the table and circling Mitchell’s wrist with his fingers. He wanted to touch him. He always wanted to touch him.
And then Mitchell’s foot bumped his and stayed put and Craig bit back a grin. Maybe there was hope.
THEY WALKED back out into the sunshine, the temperature higher than when they’d arrived. Mitchell opened up a paper map he’d grabbed from the restaurant, showing Craig they were only a block or so from the home.
“Hey, the place is actually a museum,” Mitchell added.
“Yeah, I read that.” Craig didn’t really care about seeing where Mark Twain grew up, but he knew it was important to Mitchell and he wanted to make him happy. And God, he wanted to grab his hand. Walk along the sidewalk like they were together. It seemed everywhere he looked, happy couples were strolling through the scenic town. He stepped a little closer and bumped Mitchell’s arm with his shoulder. Mitchell was a few inches taller than his own five eleven, but Craig was broader. And stronger. So he made sure to bump him gently.
“Hey!” Mitchell’s eyes rounded on Craig, surprise lighting them up.
“What?” Craig asked, pasting on an innocent look.
“You’re a goof,” Mitchell told him, shaking his head. But he was smiling. So there was that.
They approached the white clapboard house and Mitchell pointed. “The fence is here!”
“Here, let me get a picture,” Craig said, pushing him toward the fence. He didn’t need to say cheese. Mitchell was grinning in the photo. God, he had a beautiful smile.
They both moved to read the sign in front before heading to the front door, painted a hunter green.
“Boys, no, you need to enter through here,” someone called out. They both turned toward an elderly man with bright red suspenders standing at the edge of the white fence, pointing to a white wooden archway.
“You enter the museum over here,” the man said, gesturing for them to follow him.
They looked at each other and shrugged, following the man through the arch and down the redbrick path, where others stood, waiting for the tour to begin.
Craig thought he would be bored out of his mind, but to be honest, he learned more than he ever thought he would. The tour leader, Mary, was a great lady who clearly loved her job, which helped keep them interested.
As she told them that Mark Twain’s real name was Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Craig noticed Mitchell nodding along with her. He wasn’t surprised. Mitchell had told him more than once that reading The Adventures of Tom Sawyer as a child had inspired him to write.
Craig listened as Mary discussed the author’s life—growing up in Hannibal, marrying and moving to Connecticut, having four children and losing his son to diphtheria. Hearing the details while standing in his childhood home made the iconic author seem more real.
When she mentioned he was close friends with Nikola Tesla and Twain had actually patented three inventions, Craig was impressed. The man had certainly done a lot more than write.
But his favorite part of the tour was watching Mitchell. He was like a kid on Christmas morning, and when they got to the gift shop, he ended up with quite a haul, even purchasing them matching T-shirts to mark the day.
“I CAN’T believe you did that,” Mitchell said, laughing. “You’re crazy!”
Craig merged the car onto the highway before he glanced at Mitchell. “You’re just figuring that out now?”
Mitchell laughed. “No, I’ve known for years. But still. You were crazy.”
Craig laughed. “Hey, that lady was the one that started it.”
“All she said was that you looked familiar, Craig,” Mitchell protested.
“And that’s when inspiration struck.” To be honest, he couldn’t believe he did it. Claiming to be a great-great-great grandson of Mark Twain hadn’t been something he had planned. Craig shook his head and smiled as he remembered the moment it happened.
“You look so familiar,” the plump lady with the bright red hair had said, her brow furrowed as she looked him up and down.
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Many people say I look like my great-great-great grandfather, Mark Twain,” he’d lied as Mitchell’s eyes widened in surprise. The tour was over and they’d just finished shopping. Mitchell was waiting to pay the cashier, while Craig glanced through some postcards at the counter. Mary had stepped away, so Craig just rolled with it. He’d grabbed Mitchell’s hand and pulled him close—hey, he’d wanted to do it all day anyway—then dropped it and wrapped his arm around Mitchell’s shoulders. “And this is my fiancé.” He hauled him even closer until their sides were pressed together. “I wanted to show him what I could about my ancestry.”
They were peppered with questions for the next fifteen minutes until Craig could pull Mitchell out of there. They’d run to the car to pack away their new purchases before anyone could follow them.
“I still can’t believe you signed a couple of autographs.”
Craig shrugged. “They’ll figure it out if they look up Mark Twain’s ancestors. But either way, it gave them a thrill.” It’d given him a thrill but for an entirely different reason. He felt a little bad about deceiving those nice people, but holding Mitchell close had been more exciting than he’d ever dared hope. Later, after they’d walked the town, bought more souvenirs, and visited a few other places, he was still at half-mast. He was looking forward to getting to the motel where he could hide in the bathroom and take care of the problem. A little less than two hours until they were in St. Louis. He’d make it. It might kill him, but he’d make it.