7. Post-Hookup Etiquette
POST-HOOKUP ETIQUETTE
Post-hookup etiquette wasn’t Connor’s strong suit.
An hour after he’d said goodbye to Jonathan on the sidewalk near Voodoo Doughnuts, the barista at Powell’s Books nudged Connor’s solitary latte to the end of the counter, making him wish he had two cups to carry.
He could almost see himself gathering one in each hand and turning to catch the eye of a slim, dark-haired man with one side of his lips quirked as Connor approached. He’d offer the paper cup to him, and their fingers would brush.
The other man would tip his head toward the miles of shelves and they’d stroll side-by-side through the mysteries and thrillers.
He would choose something from a display and show his not-such-a-mystery guy, who would undoubtedly roll his eyes, and then they’d stand right here and stare at each other and be happy while music soared over the credits and elaborate script spelling The End scrolled past.
Even though he’d had a thousand-calorie bacon maple bar barely sixty minutes ago, his stomach felt hollow with how much he wanted that story to be real, to be his.
He raised his drink to his mouth and tasted the milky espresso mixture.
He knew how to encourage seven-year-olds to use their words and he could recognize hangry kiddos, imminent bathroom emergencies, or funny tummies with a glance, but he wasn’t sure how to ask an internet hook up to get together again.
Meaning, again tonight.
Meaning, he would stay in Portland another night even with the crazy cost of the hotel, or maybe he wouldn’t even have to book a room, if seeing Jonathan again was on the table.
Actually, the table was probably the one surface in the hotel room that he and Jonathan hadn’t used, because they had absolutely had fun against the door, on the bed, over the chair, and in the shower.
Maybe there was a math equation that would calculate how many hours with Jonathan would yield the fortitude to say no and stick by it if Tony popped up during All Star Week.
He sipped his latte. Jonathan had agreed to text, and they’d vaguely mentioned seeing each other again, so he was on track to keep saying no to Tony. Or more accurately, to start saying no when the fucker came knocking.
If he filled the yawning stretch of the first month of summer break with texting and seeing Jonathan, combined with twice a week summer softball league, his extra gigs as a paid soccer ref and baseball ump for tournaments, his master’s coursework, and insulating the crawl space, then this year the Fuck Off Tony Plan could really work. Really. For real.
He wished he’d asked Jonathan to come to Powell’s with him after their doughnut stop instead of hinting.
Jonathan had ordered the infamous Cock N’ Balls cream-filled doughnut and had threatened to squirt the contents on Connor’s face, making an absolutely opposite of subtle reference to last night that, if Connor had to speculate, had surprised Jonathan more than it had him.
People often threatened Connor with mayhem, but apparently Jonathan hadn’t expected to be one of them.
Since Connor had graduated from college, most hookups had been clear that they were one-ish and done-ish, or they happened out of town like the San Jose hockey guy or that Minnesota hottie in San Diego.
A few local dates that stretched to seconds and thirds had raised Connor’s hopes, although nothing had gone farther.
And in light of what his friends called the Swish Hitters Double-Play Disaster, he was self-aware enough to know that his energy could be a lot.
But Jonathan, despite his sarcasm and smirks, had possibly enjoyed the Connor who felt like he was drinking a triple-shot espresso even when he wasn’t. If so, Portland was close enough to Eugene that Connor could see Jonathan on the regular, especially during summer break.
All he had to do was figure out how to ask.
The last couple inches of his latte were only lukewarm. Despite his lack of sleep and his utterly jellified muscles, he would tackle Lauren’s list of books for her classroom, plus replace his own inventory based upon last year’s wear and tear.
With the educator discount, the gently used books in the children’s section meant he could fill his friend’s requests in exchange for the love she showed whenever Connor needed a dog-sitter.
He looked at the notes he’d made on his phone: non-fiction about sharks, more Junie B.
Jones, anything with ponies, replacements for Nate the Great—a series with pancakes and a good dog, kind of vintage but absolutely the best books—and, as always, some of those rainbow flower sports holiday pet whatever fairy books.
Darn that Jack Frost. Was he ever going to get what he deserved? More importantly, would it be before or after Connor keeled over from boredom with the jillion-book series?
The table display next to the shelves of easy chapter books caught his eye, and he couldn’t resist flipping through a new copy of Richard Scarry’s Cars and Trucks and Things that Go.
His own was at his parents’ house, probably waiting for grandchildren, although his mom and dad were mostly careful about not nagging him or his sister.
That grace might not last much longer, however, now that Connor was staring down his late twenties, settled in a steady career, and almost finished with his master’s.
If they pressed, he worried he’d give himself away.
His real life and his life back at the ranch were separated by a moat that divided his life into openly gay and not gay sides, and he didn’t know how to cross.
He could see the other bank. He suspected it would be safe, even welcoming, if he made it across, but he didn’t know how to get there. Since he hadn’t found someone to date, let alone introduce to his family, he hadn’t been trying too hard.
Maybe he could see Jonathan again.
If he cared about someone, then he’d tell his parents and his sister.
Not in that order, because he knew Jess would basically give him shit and then a big hug, or maybe a hug and then shit, but she wouldn’t have a problem with a gay brother.
Probably claim being gay made him one half of one percent cooler.
His parents were different, though.
They’d still love him, he was certain of that. At home they never repeated the stuff their pastor said, so he shouldn’t assume—
Stop.
He would not spiral while in a happy place like Powell’s Books. He would stay happy.
Jonathan, that was a happy thought. He knew he wanted to talk to him again, but how to do it without being too much, too big, too talkative, too exhaustingly Connor, was always the question.
He set the Busy Town book on the table display next to Mr. Popper’s Penguins by Richard and Florence Atwater. Looking between the author names, he suddenly knew how to get Jonathan’s attention.
If Jonathan didn’t go for it, if Connor and his silly ideas chased him away, then that wouldn’t be any different from other guys.
Finding out now would at least be efficient.
Traditional post-hookup etiquette offered Jonathan no guidance, and driving his car in Portland weekend traffic was hardly the moment to question his firmly held beliefs about navigating morning-afters.
He was good at light sarcasm and insincere leave-takings with men whose last names were irrelevant, but Connor’s goofily transparent machinations, sweet blushes, and enthusiasm for being bossed around, wrapped in that yummy supersized package of soft curls and muscle slabs, did not have parallels in Jonathan’s experience.
Looking in the rear-view mirror of his car and seeing his puffy lips and the pink scrape a jock’s stubble had left on his cheeks, he reassessed the choices young Jonathan had made.
Maybe he should have stretched his wings more before age twenty-six.
Back in his skating days, when he’d been hanging around ice rinks where guys built like Connor tromped in and out to play that sport with sticks and pucks, he hadn’t had the confidence or independence to risk messing with them, and thus limited himself to the easy, safe choices in the figure skating world.
A few of the hockey dudes had arrived surprisingly early and loitered nearby to say hello, but nineteen and twenty-year-old Jonathan had been too aware of the potential mistakes.
Then, after the pandemic-induced life makeover, he’d left rinks behind and stuck with predictable guys who, by virtue of being high-maintenance like him, would be happy to get off with him.
The one disastrous exception had driven him sobbing back to his make-up loving, club-hopping, sarcasm-wielding clique.
But perhaps he shouldn’t have worried so much about his welcome from the jock end of the spectrum.
It seemed that a subset of guys who’d spent their life listening to a coach really liked being coached in all sorts of ways.
He would have assumed they’d prefer big daddy energy, but maybe big skinny energy worked just as well.
An actual fling with Connor, although Jonathan had zero idea of the number of hookups it took to equal a fling, could be a healthy growth opportunity to go along with his amazing job, his new city, and his private apartment.
It wouldn’t be greedy to want that for himself; it would be progress.
He could try to connect with someone new, and if it failed, Connor would be in Portland and Jonathan could just never visit the largest city in his new state ever again, not a problem at all.
Perhaps he should find one legit activity before he left Portland, if for no other reason than to have an answer to Lily’s Monday morning inquiries that wasn’t “I ate, drank coffee and fucked, then I drank coffee, fucked, and ate.”
Also, he should probably send a proof-of-life selfie, since women worried about safety, and she’d guessed why he was going to “the city.”