Page 128 of Checking Out the Librarian

That time his father had decided for no discernible reason to take an interest in Jonathan’s skating and, unbidden, whisked his figure skates away to be sharpened at a sports store, which predictably ground a hockey-style hollow into the blades, was the last time he’d let anyone except a pro shop touch his skates.

Connor’s eyes were large circles, and his brows had climbed so high that his forehead furrowed. His lips, however, pressed firmly together.

Then they twitched.

Jonathan’s last words hung between them.

He became aware that he was wearing a very short and utterly flamboyant vintage robe that he’d bought sort of as a joke. It did cover all the parts of him which might, by crass people, be colloquially referred to as his equipment.

“I meant my fancy equipment, not my⁠—”

Connor’s mouth moved in ways that Jonathan couldn’t describe. Sideways and up and down at the same time, and then his eyes squinted. He looked like he was fighting very hard to not say or do something.

His humiliation wasn’t getting better at all. It was bordering on total annihilation of his pride.

“My coffee machine and my hair dryer, that’s the equipment I meant!”

“Of course. I understand. I won’t touch those unless you say, ‘Connor, use that hair dryer right now or else I’ll have to spank you, Connor.’”

“I will not say that. I will never say that. You are putting words in my mouth. Ridiculous words.” He couldn’t stop his voice from rising and his arms were in the air, but he didn’t know what to do with them and his robe was falling open, so he wrapped them around his waist like a second tie.

Nothing was going right. Connor would never come back.

“There are some ridiculous words in play this morning, I agree.”

“Oh God, I’m the ridiculous one. I’m so dumb.” He fled back to the bedroom, launched himself onto the bed and buried his head in his pillow. How could he have said something so simultaneously stupid and aggressive? How could he have over-reacted like this?

Connor wasn’t going to burn himself or break the espresso machine. He was super-competent in the kitchen, but he was also so fluffy and happy, it was hard to remember how capable he was.

Jonathan didn’t need four sessions of therapy at two hundred a pop to tell him why he’d melted down. The forty hours he’d had back in New York had been more than enough to make it clear that his protectiveness of his possessions was because his mother had annihilated his boundaries and refused to let him have either privacy or possessions for himself.

Until he’d abandoned home for New York, he could only use the family computer and had never had a personal laptop. His father was a real estate attorney who also owned six strip malls in suburban LA, so of course they could afford a fucking laptop, but his mom would sit beside him while he did his on-line classes and watch.

She’d even screwed his coach. The one thing that should have been his, his skating, and she’d broken that too.

His mother had destroyed his sharing gene.

Because there was no universe in which Connor could be quiet, Jonathan heard his footsteps shuffling across the carpet, then the mattress dipped. His hip bumped Jonathan’s thigh and his hand fell to the small of Jonathan’s back.

The heat and the pressure immediately put the brakes on Jonathan’s racing heart.

Connor rubbed small circles on the silk robe, making the fabric bunch and glide on the dip of Jonathan’s spine. It wasn’t a mystery why Connor liked the feel of weighted, circling motions so much when Jonathan did it to him.

“Hey, I’m here. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.” The pillow didn’t fully muffle his voice, so he could converse like this, without rolling over and seeing the disaster he’d created. “I yelled at you for no reason.”

“I understand why.”

“Well, tell me, because I don’t.” He didn’t want to look at Connor, because he didn’t want to lie to his face, but obviously he knew why. Eight thousand dollars spent on figuring that out, thank you.

But the hand on his back was so nice, he’d be a fool to turn over, and also, television had taught him to avoid revisiting the scene of the crime, which right now was Connor.

But maybe he should look him in the eyes.

Maybe that was a secret key to adult relationships. Maybe it wasn’t just eye contact during flirting, but also during apologies and fights and all the messy parts.

“I get it, I do. You are not a morning person.” Connor’s voice dropped. “And you’re not used to having someone here in your space, are you.”