Page 80 of Checking Out the Librarian

We can go shopping or get our nails done!

So many pings, so little reality. He lived a thirteen-hour drive or a two-and-a-half-hour flight from Los Angeles, and he had a job, part of the long list of reasons shopping and nails hadn’t been in the cards for a long, long time. Not with her, at least.

“You’re awake?”

He’d missed Connor’s ascent to the second floor, because he doubted the other man had suddenly become a butterfly on the stairs.

“Regrettably.” His mother pinged again.

Julie Wilson Park (Mother)

Valentina is willing to coach you.

She doesn’t care about how things ended with Mikhail.

Because unlike Mikhail, you can’t basically pay her for sex.

Julie Wilson Park (Mother)

Wouldn’t that be great!

When had she become an exclamation mark user? Perhaps she was in a support group or taking pharmaceuticals that gave her enthusiasms beyond shopping, vodka, and manipulation.

She was also completely untethered from reality if she thought he would, or even could, return to skating after five years off. Five entire years.

“Where’s my go-bag? The first aid kit? Do we have enough water?”

“What are you rambling about?” Jonathan looked up and knew he must be frowning from Connor’s well-faked wide-eyed reaction.

“It’s the apocalypse. I’m holding out coffee and you’re ignoring it.”

“Oh.” The phone felt like it weighed enough to pull his arm toward the floor, and his attention with it.

He wanted to be stronger, but each ping drew his eyes. He knew she’d never change; she lived the lyrics of every bad song he’d ever heard, and she was unchangeable, unchanging, changeless. It was no use to expect anything else, or even to want it.

“It’s my mother.”

“Oh? Or should I say, oh.”

Jonathan wanted the coffee, so he placed his phone face down on the duvet and raised his hand. Today’s mug was, once again, the weird anteater duo. He knew Connor had not only plain white mugs, but also about ten other school-related mugs, so it was a deliberate choice to bring Jonathan this one.

The coffee was, as usual, excellent. It soothed him.

Connor was, also as usual, waiting for Jonathan’s answer.

For a guy who vibrated on his toes even more than his dog did, he was patient about letting others speak. “I think you should maybe say that’s shitty, Jonathan, and make me French toast.”

Connor’s brow developed a large, but not unattractive, furrow. He would look distinguished when a few more years conferred wisdom wrinkles and solid laugh lines. Given how much time he spent outside without a hat and wearing insufficient sunblock, that time would come for him well before it came for Jonathan.

“Everything okay with your family?”

“Everything’s as okay as usual. Which is to say, not much. She wanted to wish me happy birthday.”

“It’s your birthday? What the fuck?” Connor glared at him.

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Wait.” By this point, Connor was frowning deeply. “What the fuck, doubled down.”