Page 147 of Checking Out the Librarian

He wanted to boyfriend the right way but wasn’t sure whether that meant checking up on him, or obeying his wishes and leaving him alone, so he let worry guide his thumbs.

Jonathan

Did you make it home?

Boss Becca fed Kitten a bottle, can you believe that?

I won’t tell you about the baby talk!

Before he hit send, he recognized the poor decision inherent in an exclamation mark, presumably caused by his concern for Connor. He backspaced.

Jonathan

I won’t tell you about the baby talk

Connor

I’m home

Jonathan

I’m glad. I was worried

He deleted that last sentence, too.

Jonathan

I’m glad

I won’t bother you, but text me whenever you want. Even if it’s late

He wanted to add please, wanted to add so many things that he couldn’t express but that roiled in his stomach like the chunks of sour half-and-half that sometimes plopped unexpectedly into his coffee, things that sat next to words like nervous and scared in a thesaurus.

These things inside his chest were confusing him. He didn’t know what they were, what they meant, because he’d never had a boyfriend, never had a sick boyfriend, never worried about someone like this.

And he still had to do his fucking job.

The rest of the shift was uneventful, which was a problem because the lack of distraction let Jonathan’s amygdala and hippocampus get into a big chat about whether Connor could be unconscious on the floor or shaking with fever and needing someone to spoon broth into his mouth.

Jonathan wasn’t a broth-spooner, and he’d avoided broth since the skating weight-control days, so no. Not in the cards. But his brain wouldn’t shut up about the Greek restaurant with an excellent avgolemono he could acquire. Chicken, lemon and egg soup would be much more acceptable than mere broth.

Bad brain.

Wasn’t he supposed to listen to his partner’s wishes? Connor had been clear that he wanted to be left alone to sleep, so no avgolemono.

His shift finally ended.

Somehow he and Pawsley escaped Lily’s clutches, although there were unfortunate promises about dinner at Jonathan’s apartment next week that future Jonathan was going to be required to address.

Directly from work, he had to go to his first therapy appointment and play the getting to know you game. It looked like he was taking Pawsley, which would be a hell of an icebreaker, especially since he hadn’t texted to ask about bringing his kitten.

Therapy went as well as Jonathan had expected.

The short, bearded dude had a grumbly voice that Jonathan imagined would soon replace memories of his former New York therapist’s slightly nasal tone. They covered the basics, and he walked out remembering that therapy wasn’t linear, and neither was change or growth. There would be spurts, but also plateaus, and even a little retreating here and there. Working steadily on himself was what mattered.

He was okay, if he didn’t perseverate on Connor.

At least loading Pawsley and the gear into his car, driving home, unloading, and settling the kitten in the apartment occupied him sufficiently that his Connor-shaped worries receded. By the time he’d changed to drawstring pants and a soft shirt and nestled into the couch, his hands had settled enough to film his kitten.