Page 155 of Checking Out the Librarian

Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, but he couldn’t be a grown-up here and now. He wasn’t going to talk about this until he wanted to. No one was going to have the power to play him like his mother and Mikhail used to do. He’d wait a day at least, maybe two. His choice. And his choices mattered.

He made it to his car before his eyes overflowed, which was a podium-level performance if he’d ever had one.

The click of the door locks seemed to flip a switch behind his eyelids, and no amount of blinking was going to stop this, but he fumbled for the handle and managed to get Pawsley—Kitten, he was Kitten, only ever Kitten—and his carrier into the back seat.

He locked up his lips but then the pressure was backing up into his head, and the noises were gross and coming out his nose and he had to stop this, had to stop right now, or he’d scare Kitten. Fuck this crying.

“I’m sorry.” Kitten was the best thing in his life. “I’m so sorry you won’t get to see Ribby again. Ribby was a very good dog. He is. I’m sorry.”

Fuck crying, forever. Fuck, he would not keep crying.

He crossed his arms tightly, like it was a spin, and let himself rock a tiny bit until he bumped into the car frame. Standing between the open door and the car felt almost concealed, even though he was still in the parking lot. He only needed another moment, and then he’d be able to drive home and put this T-shirt in the bathroom garbage, shower away the day, and go to bed until tomorrow.

Tomorrow he could decide whether to listen to Connor’s explanation before he told him to fuck off, or never see him again and let Connor figure out the fucking off part.

He couldn’t drive like this, though, because he couldn’t open his eyes.

Connor always wanted people to be safe to drive. He was so conscientious.

The words that had yanked out his carefully tended heart echoed somewhere inside his messy, sliced-up chest.

Hurt. Get help. Calls. Medical privacy.

They circled around and around, blending and bumping into each other inside his brain.

Calls for help. Ambulance calls?

He took a breath. And another breath. And he could open his eyes.

Blurry little kitten fluff stuck out of the mesh panel openings on the cat carrier.

Day One at the library when Connor had come in with Lauren and her daughter, he’d made assumptions, wrong ones, because he hadn’t trusted Connor. Before the first slice of French toast, he’d almost lost him because he’d been deep in his usual suspicious, defensive, I’ll-hurt-myself-before-I-let-you-do-it spiral.

He stuck a finger toward his tiny doppelganger, and the kitten tried to touch him back, but the panel prevented it. He reached for the zipper and stuck his hand in the bag. A little cuddle and he’d be able to drive.

A bundle of comfort that was kitten-shaped climbed right up his palm and played with his cuff. Tiny teeth scraped the joint at the base of his thumb like he was a chew toy, and he felt his toes uncurl inside his shoes.

The black fur and flicking ears were like silk, and the little beans at the bottom of the white-dipped feet were precious.

Logically, he shouldn’t run away. Something was wrong with Connor, and the weird conversation maybe meant there’d been a 9-1-1 call.

He should listen to Connor instead of falling into the old thinking traps he was paying good money to dismantle.

“Jonathan?”

His name sounded small and wobbly, but he knew Connor’s voice. Whether a whisper or a shout from a plummeting roller-coaster, he’d always know Connor’s voice.

“Please?”

31

IT WASN’T JUST A SANDWICH

Standing here on the asphalt by his car, looking at Connor, Jonathan felt like a statue that had tumbled from a pedestal and broken into separate pieces on the ground: a hand here, an arm there, and a heart crushed into sharpened chips of stone.

“Jonathan, please. I’ll tell you.” Instead of completing his offer, Connor shoved both hands into his hair and bent at the waist, rocking.

He should nod and agree, say something out loud, because Connor was still looking at the ground and couldn’t see his shrug, but his throat was clogged. Ah, shit, his eyes weren’t. Stupid, foolish eyes. He dashed his forearm across his face and hoped that he’d used a part of his sleeve hadn’t been kittened, but at this point it didn’t fucking matter, did it.