23. Not a Duke #2
He needed to walk around the apartment and find something to do until it was late enough to go to bed, but he’d stupidly let Kitten fall into a deep sleep on his lap.
Now he’d have to scoop him up and transfer him to the heating pad in a box—not that box, that one was shoved in the closet—because it would be much safer for Kitten.
It was the right thing to do.
Responsible, even.
There was no point to having bought the warming pad if he didn’t put Kitten to sleep in the cozy nest, but if he did, he’d have absolutely nothing to occupy himself with.
His bills were paid and he didn’t have enough laundry here to run a load because he’d washed some at Connor’s, but the important thing was that Kitten would be better off sleeping in the box.
And yet, he didn’t move.
Obviously he should send more photos to Connor before he shifted Kitten, so he snapped a close up of the little paws crossed over its face, the white splashes of fur like drips of paint on its silky blackness.
Connor
Got it!
Honorable Baron Pawsley! HBP!
HBP goes perfectly with RBI!
Pawsley wasn’t the worst possible name. It wasn’t going to be confused for a human offspring, wasn’t a celebrity homage, and wasn’t a cliché like Buddy or Tiger. Presumably no one named a tuxedo cat Tiger, but it didn’t take long working in a public library to know that people did weird shit.
So long as there were no hereditary titles involved, he could live with Pawsley. Possibly embrace it with a bejeweled collar, but that might be antithetical to rejecting inherited privilege.
His sewing machine had a digital embroidery function, so he could easily add the name to the corner of a blanket. Maybe a font with a swirling tail on the Y, to evoke a cat.
Jonathan
What is RBI?
Connor
What are you asking?
Connor sent a photo of his dog sitting alertly at the beach with Haystack Rock behind him, wearing a bib that announced “I’m Crabby at the Shore” and featured crustaceans.
It was ten p.m. and Connor was home, so this was presumably from the Ribby archives.
Jonathan
That’s how you spell Ribby?
Connor
Yes RBI
You didn’t know his real name was RBI?
He’d assumed it was a reference to the dog in the Beverly Cleary books because, duh, Oregon and a dog named Ribby, but possibly that had not been correct.
Jonathan
What does that stand for? My human is a Real Blond Idiot?
Connor
Wait
What
You do know what RBI means
Jonathan? You do?
YOU ARE KEEPING THE TEAM BOOK
Jonathan
I knew it was runs batted in.
Connor
You just looked that up didn’t you
Jonathan
My research has been more big picture.
Connor
Books with locker room sex scenes big
Jonathan
No comment.
And I will not name Kitten something that promotes violence like Hit By Pitch.
I am going to sleep now.
Connor
I can’t sleep without you.
He shouldn’t be the type of man who noticed whether people used periods in texts, because it was a pretentious asshole thing to notice, but he couldn’t unsee that Connor had included another one, and in exactly what type of sentiment.
Jonathan
You barely sleep with me.
Connor
You know what I mean. I miss being next to you.
Jonathan
…
He read it again. And again.
Jonathan
I miss you too.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. His hands couldn’t cool his cheeks.
On Sunday, Jonathan felt like he’d barely slept, then like he’d barely woken up. If a person could be the walking embodiment of a dangling cuticle, he was certain he was it.
Connor joined him at the veterinarian’s office, allegedly to make introductions, but he was all cuddles and quiet clapping when the kitten tottered on a counter, then more petting, and a total of about seven seconds of introduction, so Jonathan saw through him.
Thirty minutes later, Jonathan had decided that both he and Kitten would become exclusively indoor creatures, because nasty worms that did not drive around in apple cars visiting with talking bears existed everywhere. Heartworms! Icky worms.
While Kitten had been treated and dewormed, it felt like Jonathan’s own heart was being consumed from the inside without hope of medical intervention, it really did.
Vaccinations would start in two weeks. Veterinarian bills were clearly going to replace cafes, clothes, and car maintenance in Jonathan’s near future.
The subject of everyone’s attention was exhausted and fussy after his vet visit, which had confirmed that he was a duke and not a duchess, and so he slept in the cross-body bag Jonathan had adopted like a small version of a baby carrier.
The bag was black, Jonathan’s T-shirt was black, and Jonathan’s tapered cargo pants were black.
Only the Trader Joe’s tote Jonathan used for Kitten’s necessities was not black. It was white with yellow trim.
“I’ve become a tote-bag carrying cliché.” The words felt dramatic as they left his mouth and they really didn’t lose their whiny, mournful tone while they hung in the air between him and Connor. “And I don’t even know what I’m a cliché of!”
He heard, and wanted to reject, the rising pitch in his voice, but there was no do-over.
“Let’s get a coffee.” Connor waved at a sign down the block. “I go there after the vet, if Ribby had to get shots.”
You’re melting down, you need to be better than this, you can’t be weak in front of other people, you’re losing it, stop it. All those words and memories thankfully remained locked inside Jonathan, looping but unspoken, while they performed the easy rituals of ordering coffee and scones.
Connor offered to pay, and they walked slowly, sipping and enjoying being outdoors on pavement where no worms could use their little mouth hooks to burrow through the soles of Jonathan’s feet.
Right, he wore shoes. But hookworms existed.
“Let me carry that, so you can relax.” Connor reached for Kitten’s gear, and Jonathan let him take it.
He looked silly and approachable and so, so necessary with Kitten’s tiny tote dangling from his shoulder. Connor accepted responsibilities as easily as he’d taken the bag.
How could he ever be satisfied with a mess like me?
“It’s not a big deal, J.” He hitched the strap higher on his shoulder.
“I know, I know!”