Page 143 of Checking Out the Librarian

Make things safe.

Keep pets safe.

Keep Jonathan safe.

Take bag with pieces of table to garage.

Tie up.

Everything is garbage. Garbage. Garbage.

At least the word garbage replaced the word fuck in his head.

He should never have opened the door.

Eventually, the only things left in the front hall were the wall-mounted coat hooks opposite where the table had stood, and the shoes, all the shoes, Jonathan’s cute shoes and Connor’s big dirty shoes, and silence.

No more garbage.

Connor fell to his knees. His shoes were so ugly and big.

Garbage shoes for a garbage guy who had concealed Tony’s texts then let him in, a vampire invited across the threshold.

He picked up one of Jonathan’s sneakers, lighter in his hand than the pieces of the broken table had been. It was white with smiling bears printed on the sides. One bear wore a jacket and bow tie and carried a shopping bag with a heart on it. The other bear wore a tennis outfit and carried an iced coffee cup. They pranced all around the panels of the shoe, smiling at each other. He loved those bears.

The shoe crushed against his chest, not strong enough to keep its shape when he squeezed it to that spot where Jonathan’s hands overlapped when he hugged Connor from behind.

Jonathan would see the empty hallway, and then he would look at Connor, and Connor would lose him, because he’d lied about Tony’s texts.

He hadn’t meant to lie, but it had happened, and that was the thing Jonathan hated most.

He’d let Tony into his house, and even after Tony had kissed him, Connor hadn’t kicked him out.

He’d made a second sandwich. That sandwich. Four pieces of cheese. He could see it, dry and flat on the plate.

It was cold here on the floor. So cold.

He pressed his hand over his mouth, holding in a howl, his breakfast, his heart, everything.

He could hold it in. He could keep it in. That’s what he’d do. He’d keep it all in.

Wasn’t working.

He stumbled to his feet.

Get upstairs. Now. Run.

His elbow knocked the broom, and it clattered to the floor behind him, but he was already on the stairs, at the bathroom door, on the floor.

The lid was up. He was more coordinated than a dog, he could vomit in the toilet bowl. He was tired of cleaning.

He was tired. The tile was cold and hard under his knees.

The toilet bowl was like hugging ice, the cold pressing against his bare chest. He shivered and realized he needed a shirt to replace the one he’d given Tony.

He stared at what his body had ejected. Better than thinking.

He vomited again.