23. Not a Duke
NOT A DUKE
Jonathan’s phone told him it was only seven p.m., barely two hours since he’d told Connor that he worried about Ribby being too excited to meet the kitten, and if he had to choose between his two favorite dudes tonight (he didn’t know why they thought the kitten was a boy, but they did), it was probably wiser to choose to take the kitten to his own apartment.
Alone.
Connor had stood on the sidewalk in front of the library looking crushed, but he’d said he understood that Jonathan—no, not me, the kitten—needed less stimulation and being at his house could be a lot for someone—no, it’s a lot for something so small, not for me.
He’d said he’d understood.
Jonathan was pretty sure that wasn’t entirely true, but they were texting. A lot.
Connor
Naming him Kitten is plebian it’s common
Little guy lives in black tie
I think Duke of Pawsley
Very Downton Abbey or that other show
That show I really like
That show we started watching togeher
Jonathan
You know how I feel about the abundance of dukes.
I will not have a duke in my home other than those two.
Connor
But what about Connor Duke McMillan
Will you have him
Jonathan
You’re not serious.
Connor
Grandpa was big John Wayne fan. Dad was big Grandpa fan.
Jonathan
You are lying.
Connor sent a link that Jonathan followed to the elementary school website’s picture of Connor D. McMillan, second grade teacher, wearing a dark blue polo shirt and a suitably professional grin.
Jonathan
It’s David; it has to be David.
Connor?
WTF Connor you’re middle name is not DUKE
Connor
Proofread!
Sorry. You’re dating a dcik
Duck
Dick
Duke
Jonathan
Where is the box I can check for all of the above?
That put boxes on his mind. He’d brought the copy paper box home to use as a nest container, but one that was more square-shaped would allow the warming pad to lie flat.
In the back of his closet where the sliding door made things hard to reach, he’d stored three boxes, taped closed from his move. If he emptied the top one, it would hold the warming pad much better than the copy paper box did.
The closet door squeaked as he pushed it all the way to the right, and Kitten mewed in response.
The top box was unlabeled, giving him no idea what it contained, so it must have come from his parents’ house in California because he’d marked all his New York boxes.
He heaved it to the floor and slid the open side of the scissors through the tape.
Skating memorabilia, of course.
He touched a fingertip to the photo on top of the papers, plaques, magazines, and ribbons. It even looked like an old costume was crammed in here. A different life, a different boy, squeezed into a box.
Breathe, that’s what he always told Connor.
The photo showed the three of them, his mother, his coach, and himself, clustered around an outdoor café table littered with glasses.
An ashtray overflowed with Mikhail’s cigarettes.
With time and knowledge, he could see that his mother sat too close to his coach, and her head tilted toward Mikhail, not Jonathan.
Jonathan didn’t know how to describe her expression other than replete. She looked like she’d eaten gluttonously, even though the plate in front of her had most of a meal on it.
He couldn’t read the expression on his own face and honestly didn’t recall if that competition had been before or after he’d asked his mother about moving to a different coach to get a different push.
Everyone switched coaches when they plateaued, everyone, but she’d convinced him to stay with Mikhail.
The photo was an echo from that time, before he’d realized his mother was choosing her affair, his coach was choosing easy money, and his father was choosing the path of least resistance.
Before he’d realized no one had been choosing him.
No, he didn’t think he’d packed this.
His mother must have printed the photo and deliberately placed it on the top of the box, because he wouldn’t have included it even before he discovered their affair.
He’d listened to Mikhail’s guidance, respected the man’s skating history, and been afraid of him as a person; he’d never liked him enough to keep a candid photo.
He didn’t even want to lift these things out of the box and definitely didn’t want them loose in his apartment.
Without a roll of tape, he managed to fold the flaps underneath each other into a semblance of closed and heave the box back on the stack from whence it came.
Note to future Jonathan: don’t unpack old shit before finding that new therapist.
Kitten could keep using the cozy little box from the library.
An hour later, he took a bite of the stir fry he’d made from leftover rice, eggs, the liquid at the bottom of a jar of kimchi, and part of a bag of mixed frozen peas and carrots that he couldn’t remember buying, let alone opening. It was adequate. Cooked rice was good indefinitely, he was certain.
Connor would have used fresh carrots, made the egg both better and more authentic, and probably pulled green onions from his garden and something randomly delicious like cashews out of his cupboard if tasked to create a dish from simple leftovers.
At least Jonathan had used soy sauce, jarred garlic, and ginger paste. He was unskilled, but not bland.
For fuck’s sake, his cooking was as basic as Connor’s skin care.
Not the worst it could be, because he hadn’t microwaved the rice in a plastic container, drizzled soy sauce directly onto it, and eaten it standing at the sink.
But he’d grown accustomed to eating at Connor’s, doing the prep Connor directed him to do, and tonight, alone, was… not that.
Kitten was offline sleeping, and not an available distraction.
What had he done for dinners last month before he’d started spending every available moment with Connor? The time before Connor felt like a different era, although it could be measured in a handful of weeks.
He would have sat at this same counter, on the same stool, with the same view, minus the kitten snoozing in a box on the floor. And he would have maybe had an expired newspaper that he’d snagged from the library recycling, or a book, or his e-reader.
He would have been immersed in a world created by someone else, but tonight those were too large of a commitment for his brain.
Kitten could stare at Jonathan with his supernaturally large eyes, make Jonathan laugh, do a big stretch, and show his tummy, which were also all things that Jonathan appreciated about Connor, but Jonathan missed the more that he felt when he was around Connor.
The teasing they shared, the touches, the whole-body attention that Connor gave, and Connor’s cooking.
He definitely missed that.
But he missed Connor more.
He didn’t even want his phone. He wanted to have Connor on the stool next to him, being big and occupying space with his laughter and shining light with his smile.
He looked at the furniture. With the exception of the reupholstered chaise, it wasn’t as nice as Connor’s. That was fine.
The white baseboards were dinged in places, he knew that, but it was a rented apartment. He’d started working three days after he’d moved in and he hadn’t had time to repaint. That had been a goal for this month, but then Connor happened.
Connor wouldn’t care about the baseboards. Neither would Lily. He could have one of them over. No one but Jonathan would even notice the baseboards.
His neck prickled where his hair touched it, and his chest felt tight, so he looked down into the box where Kitten slept. Its whole body rose and fell in time with its breathing. An ear twitched. The tip of its tail twitched.
Watching the kitten was like doing nothing and doing everything all at the same time.
He could ask Connor to come over. They could sit on the couch. Also, Jonathan had nice bedding, that was true. He’d have to scrub the shower first, though. Really scrub.
But having Connor over meant having Ribby over. They were a package, and he wasn’t ready for the big-mouthed, full-set-of-teeth Ribby to meet his baby cat. Good dogs were still dogs.
Kitten opened its big eyes and looked up at him, then wobbled to its feet. Bottle? Its little stretched out mew asked.
“I can get you a bottle. I can do that.”
In moments, they were on the couch, a towel across his lap while he supported Kitten and the bottle. He felt his breathing adjust to Kitten’s bottle noises.
When this was finished, he would ask. His apartment was good enough. It wasn’t perfect, but also, it wasn’t his subdivided sublet in New York, it was his, only his, and it was nice enough. It was.
They did the Kitten potty thing in the shower tub combo, because he could bleach the literal shit out of that white fiberglass five times a day if he had to. And then they went back to the couch to add to the day’s tally of cozy cuddles and texting.
Connor
What about Viscount of Pawsley?
Jonathan
What about no, not that.
Connor
VoP for short
Jonathan
That’s not a word.
Connor
It’s a great sound
Vop Vop, din din is ready
Jonathan
I will never say that.
Connor
Oops Voops I annoyed your other daddy
Marquess of Pawsley? AKA Moppet
Jonathan
No
Connor
Did I annoy the punctuation out of you
Jonathan
I a m not engaging in this
Connor
That was less than perfect typing
Jonathan
Because I am carrying for a dependent kitten and not letting you bait me.
I can spell and punctuate, even under these circumcisions.
Connor
Ouch?
Please don’t hurt your shelf
Jonathan
…
Why?
Fuck
Connor
Probably not for a couple days? You need time to heal
I miss you.
The period at the end of Connor’s text felt as large as a beacon. It was deliberate, Jonathan was certain, a subtle gift that said he missed being together perhaps even more than the actual words did.