28. Sandwiches #3
If he left to get a broom or a dustpan, would Tony put his hand down and do more damage? He pulled his shirt over his head and held it out. The fabric waved in his hand.
He didn’t know if he could toss it to Tony, or even if Tony could field it, so he crunched across the glass. “Here. Use this on your head.”
Tony gripped the hem of Connor’s shorts and started to cry.
He didn’t care.
After he made the call, nobody spoke until the emergency response arrived, three people, all of them calm.
He floated somewhere by the ceiling and watched another Connor, a different Connor, handle the questions about what had happened.
Functioning Connor carefully explained that Tony had been drinking but no, he didn’t know how much, and no, he wasn’t going to come to the emergency room, and no, he wasn’t next of kin, Tony’s family was in Portland, and no, he really wasn’t coming to the hospital.
“Connor. Come with me,” Tony moaned.
“I have to clean this up.”
“Come.” He clutched that bloody shirt in his hand like it was a security blanket, even though he’d mocked Connor’s toys on his last visit.
“You don’t actually want that. You don’t want to be seen with me.”
At the end, when he closed the door, when his house was quiet and empty, and he stood alone among the glass and splintered wood, all he could think was that at least Tony hadn’t driven away drunk.
He really shouldn’t laugh. He shouldn’t. But not bending over and guffawing into the mess took too much energy so he did it.
He didn’t understand why he was laughing, but he did it.
He didn’t understand any of this.
Fuck. The mess. Fuck.
The word felt stuck on repeat in Connor’s brain, like he didn’t know any others. Fuck fuck fuck. It became the white noise background inside Connor’s head, and maybe that would stop or maybe it would last forever.
Clean up the mess, that was the first thing, and he could do that.
Get broom and dustpan and black contractor garbage bag from laundry area.
OhPawsleyYouAreSweetYouAreGoodPawsleyPettingPawsleyPettingPawsleyNoNoPawsleyHasToStayHereWhereIt’sSafe.
Clean house to make it safe for animals.
Sweep glass.
Bag garbage.
Pieces of frame.
Poster of favorite park.
All garbage.
Empty drawer from broken hall table.
Don’t know these keys.
Restaurant take-out fliers.
So much garbage.
Vacuum for tiny pieces of glass.
Wipe floor with wet cloth for glass dust, because Ribby has tender feet.
Make things safe.
Keep pets safe.
Keep Jonathan safe.
Take bag with pieces of table to garage.
Tie up.
Everything is garbage. Garbage. Garbage.
At least the word garbage replaced the word fuck in his head.
He should never have opened the door.
Eventually, the only things left in the front hall were the wall-mounted coat hooks opposite where the table had stood, and the shoes, all the shoes, Jonathan’s cute shoes and Connor’s big dirty shoes, and silence.
No more garbage.
Connor fell to his knees. His shoes were so ugly and big.
Garbage shoes for a garbage guy who had concealed Tony’s texts then let him in, a vampire invited across the threshold.
He picked up one of Jonathan’s sneakers, lighter in his hand than the pieces of the broken table had been.
It was white with smiling bears printed on the sides.
One bear wore a jacket and bow tie and carried a shopping bag with a heart on it.
The other bear wore a tennis outfit and carried an iced coffee cup.
They pranced all around the panels of the shoe, smiling at each other. He loved those bears.
The shoe crushed against his chest, not strong enough to keep its shape when he squeezed it to that spot where Jonathan’s hands overlapped when he hugged Connor from behind.
Jonathan would see the empty hallway, and then he would look at Connor, and Connor would lose him, because he’d lied about Tony’s texts.
He hadn’t meant to lie, but it had happened, and that was the thing Jonathan hated most.
He’d let Tony into his house, and even after Tony had kissed him, Connor hadn’t kicked him out.
He’d made a second sandwich. That sandwich. Four pieces of cheese. He could see it, dry and flat on the plate.
It was cold here on the floor. So cold.
He pressed his hand over his mouth, holding in a howl, his breakfast, his heart, everything.
He could hold it in. He could keep it in. That’s what he’d do. He’d keep it all in.
Wasn’t working.
He stumbled to his feet.
Get upstairs. Now. Run.
His elbow knocked the broom, and it clattered to the floor behind him, but he was already on the stairs, at the bathroom door, on the floor.
The lid was up. He was more coordinated than a dog, he could vomit in the toilet bowl. He was tired of cleaning.
He was tired. The tile was cold and hard under his knees.
The toilet bowl was like hugging ice, the cold pressing against his bare chest. He shivered and realized he needed a shirt to replace the one he’d given Tony.
He stared at what his body had ejected. Better than thinking.
He vomited again.
He’d had Jonathan for one month.
Stop thinking.
They’d had four weeks and three days.
Stop. Thinking.