Page 145 of Checking Out the Librarian

He stared at Jonathan’s hands. His polish was dark blue with silver sparkles. Graceful and gentle hands, nothing like Tony’s. If only he could put himself in the care of those hands, he’d feel better, but he’d fucked up.

“Connor?” Jonathan took the weight of the cat carrier from him.

“I’m sick. Going home to sleep.” The idea of pulling down his shades and getting under his blankets with Ribby wrapped itself around him and didn’t let go. That made two not-lies in a row.

Pawsley mewed.

No, Kitten. His name was Kitten and always had been.

Connor unslung the shopping tote he’d stuffed with cat things. Jonathan couldn’t really take all the gear at once, so he looked over at Lily, who was already coming out from behind the counter to grab the portable litter box.

Jonathan’s attention was torn between his cat and Connor. “Should I bring dinner after⁠—”

“No!” Seeing Jonathan take a step backward alerted Connor that he’d raised his voice. In the library. He looked at the floor. “I need to sleep. I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

The weight of the carrier pulled Jonathan’s arms lower. Connor watched him set it on the floor. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly.

“It’s the championship tomorrow,” Jonathan said.

Fuck. Twenty-four hours.

“I need sleep.” He was stuck in a verbal loop.

“Okay, okay.” Jonathan came closer.

By focusing on Jonathan’s fingernails, Connor made himself stand without shivering. They were pretty fingernails.

Then Jonathan set his palm gently on Connor’s forearm and slid that light touch, so light, not grabby, downward.

His eyes prickled, but he was too aware of their location, of the smell trapped in his mask, of the cat noises, to cry. If there was a word for being too torn up to even cry, that was him.

He wrapped his fingers and thumb around Connor’s wrist and held him for a moment, with his warm palm covering the veins on the back of Connor’s hand.

If Jonathan could feel Connor’s heart thump, he didn’t show it. “You’ll drink plenty of fluids? That’s the only thing I know about being sick, drink fluids.”

Connor took a deep breath, but all he could smell was his own rancid lies.

He nodded, pulled his arm back, and turned away. Left the building, left Jonathan, left what he knew was his heart there on the library floor. He was going home.

He was going to get in a hot shower and then bed and he would finally get warm.

As soon as the doors closed behind Connor, Lily turned to Jonathan. She looked as bewildered as he felt. “What was that?

“I don’t know. He was fine this morning?” He couldn’t explain Connor’s red-rimmed eyes, and he shied away from asking Lily if she too had noticed the scary-colored stains on the hem of Connor’s cargo shorts. They were probably a stain from the crawl space or the kitchen.

It had looked like several smears of blood. Like fingerprints. In blood.

This wasn’t a thriller novel, and Connor hadn’t been in a Reacher-style fight in an alley. This was the Eugene, Oregon public library, and Connor had been carrying a cat.

A cat he’d called Kitten instead of Pawsley.

Something had happened, and Jonathan wasn’t convinced it was a virus, but Connor said he was sick. That’s what Jonathan had to believe. Connor didn’t lie to him.

“He definitely seemed weird, though.” Lily was rambling. “He didn’t bounce when he walked.”

“I know, right? He was all heavy? Should I have driven him home?” Worry was giving him vocal fry, which he absolutely did not want. Having to manage his pet unexpectedly was going to be rough enough, he didn’t need to present as a teen girl while he did it. No shade to teen girls, they were awesome and he loved their energy and style and deadass stares, but not right now.

He took a deep breath. Counted.