28. Sandwiches #2
He rushed to the sink and spit, so he wouldn’t throw up, not in front of Tony, even though he felt sick.
He set the empty plate on the counter. It rattled until he remembered to let go. He’d make another sandwich. Then Tony would go more easily.
He stared at the counter. He lifted his hands to open the bag of bread, but his fingers didn’t know how to deal with the plastic thing holding the bag closed. They were shaking. Was there a word for that plastic thing? There must be.
He put both of his hands on the counter and pressed into the familiar coolness.
Was it a tab? A tag? A clicker? He didn’t think those were right. He couldn’t remember the word.
His knees felt weird. He needed to hear Jonathan’s voice, have Jonathan say his name, but Jonathan’s voice had disappeared from inside his head.
Ribby nudged the back of his leg. At least someone was having a good time.
The sandwich on the floor had been the last of the ham, so Tony was only getting bread and cheese in the replacement.
It was a clip. A bread clip.
He tried again, and this time he managed to unhook it from the plastic bag.
Two slices of bread.
Four slices of cheese.
Seal the bag of cheese.
Twirl the bread bag.
Attach the clip.
Okay, his hands and fingers were working.
That was good. If he did this, and Tony ate, then he’d leave.
Ribby whined from next to him.
Tony hadn’t spoken.
The freezer clattered.
The loud chunk-chunk of ice falling into the tray made Connor jerk, but he didn’t drop the second sandwich. His kitchen was really cold, like freezing, so he glanced at the fridge, but the door was closed. It wasn’t that.
He wished he could put this thing that he’d built in front of Tony without looking at him, but he had to leave the counter and cross the kitchen. Tony had returned to the chair and propped his elbows on the table, head resting in both hands, like he was beat. Like he was ripped up inside.
Him.
He had no idea what he’d done to Connor’s life.
Fuck him.
“Here’s the fucking sandwich.” He stretched his arm out so he didn’t have to get too close when he thunked the plate in front of the man he didn’t even know anymore. “Eat it and get out.”
It didn’t sound like his own voice, or maybe his ears were out of alignment with his mouth.
Some time passed.
He watched from a spot next to the mud room door. The mud room was a good, safe space for Pawsley to roam and bat around Connor’s cleats or attack Ribby’s toy basket when Connor couldn’t watch him closely. Pawsley was safe back there.
That was important. Pawsley was tiny and fragile, and Connor had to keep him safe.
He wasn’t going to let Jonathan’s pet see or be seen by Tony.
Tony ate slowly.
Ribby joined him by the door, probably because Pawsley was back there and couldn’t come out until they were alone again.
Tony chewed like a fucking glacier. No, global warming meant glaciers were melting faster than he chewed. Connor felt Ribby’s fur under his fingers.
At one point Tony stood to refill his water, crossing the kitchen and heading for the sink.
Ribby yipped until Connor loosened his hold, but he didn’t leave Connor’s side.
Ribby’s fur was velvet where he pressed against Connor’s knee. Ribby was good. Ribby was too good for Connor.
“Are you sober enough to drive?” He seemed a lot better than Connor would have expected from that porch performance, like maybe he hadn’t been that drunk.
That tracked.
“Yeah, I can drive.”
Connor didn’t want to examine that too deeply. Every minute that ticked past was closer to the end of Jonathan’s workday, to him coming over for Pawsley, to him meeting Tony and Tony ruining everything. “You need to go.”
“Need your bathroom.”
“Same place.”
While Tony was behind the closed powder room door, he and Ribby hustled into the front hall to wait. He heard the flush, then the sink, and then the bathroom door opened.
Tony stalked toward him.
Acid burned in Connor’s stomach when he saw that the other man had finger combed his hair, maybe put some water on his face, because he looked more put together than when he’d arrived.
He registered the moment Tony’s gaze settled on the sneakers Jonathan had left in the hallway, the white ones decorated with cartoon bears carrying shopping bags and coffee cups, because his face sort of cracked before it rearranged itself into a look that, if he’d seen it on the field, he’d know meant Tony intended to throw down to second.
“Does he carry a purse, too?”
White hot rage blurred Connor’s vision. “Fuck you. You don’t get to—”
Tony was coming at him. Tony blocked out everything with his shoulders and his big sun-tanned face, his wet mouth open like a cave and his dark eyes narrowed in a glare.
Ribby was at their feet barking, and Connor lifted his arms between them, but Tony moved faster than Connor remembered and his grip was a major league catcher’s.
“I said no!” Connor pushed, but his elbows were bent and he was trapped.
“You don’t mean it. You can’t.” Tony was bigger, stronger, had always had the reach, none of that had changed, and he was saying sloppy things Connor couldn’t hear over the rushing in his ears and Ribby’s crazy noise.
He couldn’t breathe, because he’d locked his lips tight to keep Tony’s snake tongue out of his mouth.
Had to use his nose, he could breathe, he could, he wasn’t suffocating, he wasn’t, but his fists were trapped and his lips were curled hard against his teeth, and he could feel a dam inside about to burst.
He needed to get Tony out of here.
Needed to get away.
Tony’s mouth was wet on his face, and Connor pushed as hard as he could despite how Tony squeezed. Tony’s hands finally loosened, giving him the space to breathe.
He gulped, a wheezy sound in the lull between Ribby’s barks. “I hate you.”
“Do you?” Asshole sounded like he was near tears. Connor could feel the other man try to shuffle-step sideways, but then Ribby yelped and scrabbled out of the hall.
“You hurt my dog, you piece of shit.” Somehow, Connor’s foot was behind Tony’s.
“No, I—” Tony stumbled and reached for Connor’s T-shirt, pulling until Connor overbalanced, too. He hadn’t realized his hands were still raised between them, and his stumble turned into a shove with his weight unexpectedly behind it.
Tony wheeled backward into the hall console table and then fell to the ground. The noise was sudden and loud.
Then it was silent.
He wasn’t quite sure in what order things had happened, but somehow the table where mail and keys collected had collapsed underneath Tony.
The framed poster of Crater Lake from the wall above had also tumbled to the floor, leaving a record of anger written in broken glass.
Somebody was breathing really loudly, a thick and wet sound accompanied by moaning. Connor didn’t know which was Tony and which was him, or if they were both him or both Tony, but he did know there was blood on Tony’s face.
A lot of blood on his forehead.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Don’t put your hands down!”
Now there was even more blood, all over Tony’s face, from a cut at his hairline, and some on the floor. There was glass everywhere, and a catcher needed his hands.
“Don’t move!”
Tony froze with one hand on his forehead and looked up at Connor with the eyes of all the dogs Connor hadn’t been able to rescue.
Connor only wore socks, but his dog-walking slides were next to Jonathan’s sneakers, so he shoved his feet into them while he fished his phone from his cargo pocket. The shoes took two attempts, the phone three.
“Calling an ambulance.”
“No, no, don’t.” Tony removed his hand from his head and held it out to Connor, begging. There was blood on his palm.
“You need the ER.” There was a lot of blood, more than a knocked-out tooth at school. A lot more. “Stitches.”
Tony lifted his bloody hand to his head again, looking dazed. “You take me.”
He wouldn’t do it. Tony was on the floor; he couldn’t make Connor do it. “I said, don’t move. There’s glass everywhere.”