Page 205 of Checking Out the Librarian

Jonathan wouldn’t kick anything, not Connor’s shin, not a tire, not even this highly kickable gravel, nothing, but only because his sneakers were cute, and scuff-removal was almost as annoying as his boyfriend.

Who had not stopped laughing.

“And for the record, I love you too.”

The jerk was still laughing.

Connor’s mother pushed the back door open with her hip, carrying a box that strained her arms. “I have a few things for you to take, Jonathan.”

Connor finally straightened, but didn’t stop grinning as he trotted over to grab the cardboard carton. That profile view, from dimple to denim-wrapped thighs, was dangerously unfair for susceptible gay boys like him. No matter which view of that ass he saw, he was fucking doomed.

Going home by himself was going to suck.

“I got this, Mom.”

While Connor situated the box next to the suitcase, Jennifer explained that it was cherry jam and other jars of preserves—this year’s, not last’s—a bunch of firm apricots that should ripen well on the counter, a packed lunch—put that in the front, wait, why is there a stuffed pony buckled in the passenger seat Connor why did you do that you know children go in the back—a container of frozen vegetarian chili that would do double duty to keep everything cold while he drove but be nicely thawed for dinner by the time he was home, and also a bottle of home-pressed cider—don’t worry, it’s pasteurized, we have cows and chickens so of course we home pasteurize.

Connor stood behind his mother’s back, making a talking-hand gesture and bobbing his head.

“If you could save the jars and bottles and make sure they come back over to the ranch next time, that’d be wonderful. Also, Connor, I know what you’re doing behind me. You’re not too old to get Grandma’s wooden spoon.”

“But I’m too fast.” Connor wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist and lifted her off her feet. “Can’t catch me if you can’t run!”

“Con-nor!”

He felt almost dizzy with the joy emanating from the McMillans. This was a Christmas movie, only set in the summer and with gays and a not-white main character, but still, he was in a Christmas movie. Toss around the white fluff, give him a chunky cable knit sweater, and he’d be looking for a fresh coffee from craft services.

No idea what Old Jonathan would have said about this, but New Jonathan blurted, “I can’t leave. I can’t.”

Connor let his mother go, and she laughed and swept up to Jonathan. Her arms were solid around his body, and she smelled like pancakes and soap.

“Come back anytime, sweetie. Anytime. You don’t even have to bring Connor with you, since he’s so rude to his mother.”

Then she whispered in his ear. “I put copies of that picture we talked about and the one you emailed me in matching frames in the bottom of the box. I think that’s a great idea.”

Matchy-matchy. It made his heart happy; his eyes, not so much, but his heart was what mattered.

Jonathan hugged back, hard.

Five nights apart from Connor meant five days filled with work and, after he’d finished the homemade chili, pathetic apartment dinners of lackluster avocado toast with sesame seeds that didn’t successfully conceal the stringy brown parts.

Jonathan suspected he might be slightly useless without Connor.

Pawsley was wonderful, a torpedo of chirrups and rumbles who attempted a salchow off the climbing tree Lily had procured during her weekend custody stint. He also joined a Tuesday group ride, working his legs until they burned, and invited Lily over without being blackmailed into it, all to do something that he could tell Connor about in their nightly calls.

So, he functioned, probably better than in the before-Connor time, if the kitten and the cycling and the having Lily in for drinks were measured. But none of it gave him the with-Connor glow, the with-Connor laughter, or the with-Connor feeling of home.

That feeling lived here in Connor’s house, where he waited in the redecorated entry hall.

The space was ready. It gleamed, it smelled nice, and the mirror hanging over the shoe cabinet was level. According to his recent text, Connor should be turning into the street.

He was riding a nervous spiral in the wrong direction, and he didn’t want Connor to come in via the back door, so he went to the porch, breathed, and hopped on the balls of his feet a little tiny bit.

Within minutes, the Subaru pulled in and a dog nose was touching his face and how was that no longer something to complain about.

Then Connor pulled him away from Ribby and into his arms. “I guess I know where I stand around here.”

“Come in and get against the door and I’ll show you where you stand.” That came out more forcefully than he’d intended, the fault of nerves, or maybe need. Or both.