Page 50 of Checking Out the Librarian

“Since we’re two gay men on a Saturday night, probably find a club and go dancing.”

“What?” The whites of Connor’s eyes looked almost as large as the white around the fried eggs he’d cooked for himself with the French toast, but which Jonathan had declined.

“Joking.” He was joking about dancing after a hard morning cycling, but taking the floor to gyrate against a solid wall of Connor had possibilities. If he had any rhythm at all, which was doubtful, it would be amazing.

“I do dance. I do. I’m in high demand at friends’ weddings because I’m one of the guys who dances. And it’s a great way to meet⁠—”

“I know exactly who you can meet on a dance floor.”

Connor shut up and his lips firmed. Jonathan sipped his coffee and waited, watching Connor think. If his eyebrow motions were a cheat sheet, it was possible that the other man had discarded two ideas before he settled on one that he was about to share.

“Got it!” Connor lifted a finger. “A friend of mine has a music thing Saturday night. Kind of low key, since we’ll be tired, and it’s at a park, so it’s free.”

“What is it?”

“A concert in the amphitheater at Alton Baker Park.” Connor lowered his chin and looked at Jonathan through his golden lashes. “It’s old music.”

“Like ABBA old?”

“No, like dead guy composers. I have to think of the name of what she plays.” His hands did something in front of his body, fluttery fingers and arms moving in two different directions, that Jonathan did not understand, but which must be a pantomime of playing an instrument.

“A harp?”

“The angel instrument? No, that would be like this.” He reached far in front of himself, and his fingers fluttered as he pulled them toward his chest.

The man who managed to make a busy bartender take his order with merely a chin lift could not be pantomiming a harp and calling it ‘the angel instrument,’ absolutely not, so Jonathan knew he too was being played.

“I’m far too sober and under-caffeinated for charades, but dear God, I can’t help myself. Is it a theremin?”

“Isn’t that also a keyboard? No, the thing Trixie plays is like a giant violin, but standing up.”

“A cello? Or an upright bass? Is that what this was supposed to be?” He held his own hands in front of his body and moved them back and forth, but carefully emphasized his extended middle fingers.

“That’s you pretending to be a wild turkey doing a mating dance. I was definitely playing the bass.”

“I hope your friend has better form than you do.”

“She does. You should see her pitch softball. Excellent form. I can’t really judge her bass, though, for a lot of reasons.”

Jonathan let that comment pass. For a lot of reasons. “And a theremin is not like a keyboard. It’s a touchless electronic instrument invented by a Russian in 1920. You wave between antennas, that’s all.”

Connor stared. “I believe you. Sort of.”

Jonathan felt an admittedly petty surge of satisfaction over having both derailed and then taken back the conversation. “I don’t even believe me, but I learned a lot about Russian music and composers while skating.”

This breakfast, the goofy meandering conversation, the bounces between sincerity and silliness, the totality of it was new to him and he wasn’t sure he liked feeling this uncertain. He especially wasn’t sure he liked the way he couldn’t predict what Connor was going to say or do next.

But he wasn’t bored. That was quite novel, too.

“The concert starts at 7:30. What about a picnic?”

This was in fact happening. A hookup was asking him to go on a picnic, and he was about to say yes even though he’d never once been on a picnic with a man he’d fucked. He didn’t think he’d ever even been on a picnic with a man he’d wanted to fuck. He’d only been on one picnic, in Central Park for a concert with classmates. It had rained. The baguette had been a mushy disaster and he’d ruined a pair of shoes. He’d never gone back to the Sheep Meadow to sit on a dirty gross blanket when he could go to a bistro in his neighborhood for much less hassle.

Jonathan grabbed both plates and the cutlery from the table and fled toward the kitchen sink. “What about it?”

“Is that a yes?” He didn’t have to see Connor’s face; he could hear the smile in his voice. He smiled all the fucking time.

“Yes, damn it, it is. I am saying yes to a picnic in a park on Saturday night.” Yesterday he’d been ready to take the next step to functioning adulthood, but today he wasn’t sure.