Page 144 of Checking Out the Librarian

He’d had Jonathan for one month.

Stop thinking.

They’d had four weeks and three days.

Stop. Thinking.

29

AMYGDALA AND HIPPOCAMPUS ARE FIGHTING

Connor remembered loading Pawsley’s gear, litter box, and carrier into his Subaru.

That part he could clearly recall because Ribby had been unhappy to be left at the house, but he didn’t remember the drive. Yet here he was, turning his car off in the library parking lot, which low-key terrified him.

He could have hurt someone. He shouldn’t have been driving, wasn’t any different from Tony, but he had to return Pawsley before Jonathan ended his shift at four. Had to tell him dinner was off, and Jonathan couldn’t come to the house today.

It would break him to see Jonathan standing in the bare hallway looking around and saying, What happened, Connor.

So much better to give him Pawsley here.

Kitten.

Jonathan’s choice was Kitten.

Pawsley had been temporary, a rest stop of a name that Jonathan would blow past and forget as soon as he knew how Connor had fucked up.

He checked himself in the rearview mirror before he climbed out of the car. His eyes looked red, and his lip was cut and puffy where Tony…

He needed to hide his lip.

There was an old KN-95 mask in the glove box, wedged between a paper map of Oregon his father insisted he carry, an empty granola bar box, and the owner’s manual. The face covering part had softened with time, but the ear elastic hurt when he put it on.

It would conceal what he’d let Tony do.

A few minutes later, he staggered through the lobby doors, dizzy from the stink inside his mask. He’d scrubbed his teeth five times, maybe more, but he couldn’t brush inside his nose, so the last molecules of puke had immediately fermented when he put on a mask.

Kitten squawked from the carrier as Connor crossed the space to the children’s area.

“Connor!” Lily recognized him. She wasn’t loud, but her librarian voice was steady.

“Is Jonathan…” He felt very far away. Puke or not, he must focus.

“I think he’s shelving holds, you know where⁠—”

Jonathan was already trotting over, eyebrows raised and pressed hard into a line.

Don’t panic. I can’t help you. I can’t.

“What’s going on?” His gaze fixed on Connor’s face mask. “Is everything okay? Are you⁠—”

“I think I’m sick.”

Rating: somewhat truthful. He had been sick.

“I can’t.” His words felt chopped up and his brain couldn’t make them come out the way he wanted. “I can’t take care of Kitten and I’m going home to sleep.”

“What can I do? What do you need?” Jonathan reached for him, not for the cat carrier, and Connor stumbled. Kitten yelped and he froze.