Page 130 of Checking Out the Librarian

Fate offered him a Monday afternoon time slot, and he seized it without dithering, which left him with ten minutes to scroll Connor’s previous texts and also reinforced his ability to refrain from needing constant updates.

Jonathan

How are you doing?

He might be a tiny bit needy.

Connor

I am

Doing

The photo was, not unexpectedly, a sleeping kitten in blurry closeup on Connor’s chest. Connor’s legs stretched along the couch out of the frame.

Jonathan

I see it is nap time chez McMillan

Connor

We had afternoon snacks and indoor recess, then I read a picture book to the class and boom, out

Jonathan imagined Connor reading Goodnight Moon and letting his voice drop lower each time he said kitten or mitten, and for the second time that afternoon, he had to shut off his phone.

He was at work, and the library was not a desalination plant, even if he seemed to be close to overflowing with unexplainably salty water.

Connor focused on the subtle twitches of the kitten sleeping on his chest, instead of the messages on the phone he held propped on his stomach. He was more glad that he had the responsibility and pleasure of Pawsley’s company today than he could, or would, ever tell Jonathan.

The All-Star Break started tomorrow, but Tony’s texts had started today, which was earlier than his usual pattern.

Tony

I’m coming home Saturday. You around?

With my folks on weekend but I’m up for a roadie Monday

Want to see you

He shouldn’t have read these, let alone reread them. The shithead and his mind games pissed Connor off way more than in previous years. A roadie. What did that even mean? Did that mean him?

Pawsley’s tiny weight pinning him to the sofa kept all Connor’s fury locked inside his ribcage rather than erupting out of his chest like a baby alien.

When he and Tony had started screwing around eight years ago on the university team, he’d always sort of known Tony was an asshole who justified manipulating other people and excused himself from responsibilities or repercussions, but the scale of his assholery was clearer to Connor now that Jonathan was in his life.

Jonathan mistakenly called himself an asshole, but he was the squishiest little hedgehog Connor had ever seen, and Connor had taken four elementary classes to a petting farm, so he’d seen a lot of hedgehogs, alpacas, and donkeys. Jonathan sort of reminded him of all of them.

Even when he used to tell himself that Tony was closeted, Tony was lonely, Tony was sad, or that Tony didn’t mean to hurt him and was hurting himself more, none of the platitudes had made him feel better about the way Tony ignored him between hook ups, because he’d been lonely, too.

Jonathan had probably—no, definitely—been lonely. And neither of them treated people like Tony did.

Maybe he could understand the guy jerking him around all these years and never accepting when Connor said he didn’t want to see him, because he’d always let him come back.

Why hadn’t he blocked Tony’s number before now? He’d told Hank he’d done it already, but he hadn’t, and that was stupid.

Jonathan’s no-lying rule was a pretty good one.

He remembered his statement to Jonathan that he was a pretty happy guy, had everything he wanted, did his job and took care of Ribby and lived each day as it came.