29. Amygdala and Hippocampus Are Fighting #3
He’d known that in his chest since their first bike ride, and he’d known it in his head since that hike when Jonathan had drawn the beautiful diagram of how they fit together, but until he touched this tiny piece of cake, he hadn’t known that Jonathan loved him.
The pot tipped and rolled a slow spiral on his dresser top.
His hand was shaking.
He shouldn’t touch these when he was like this, because he’d drop them or ruin them, like he’d ruined everything else today.
But he wanted one.
He wanted to hold it next to the lump in his throat and feel something that Jonathan’s hands had cradled. He took the tiny slice of red velvet cake with him and stumbled back to bed, still cold, too cold.
He picked up his phone, but his hand wasn’t steady and that made it hard to read until he propped it on Jonathan’s pillow. Like that, he could scroll through their texts.
Pawsley. Jonathan had called his kitten Pawsley.
Swallowing was painful, as if he was becoming the sick he’d pretended to be in the afternoon, but he knew it wasn’t that. After choking up for random reasons all evening, he knew it wasn’t some fucking flu.
He pulled the duvet tighter around his shoulder until only the hand holding the phone peeked out and played the new video again.
Jonathan wouldn’t keep the name after he knew how stupid Connor was and how many times Connor had lied, but for this one moment he’d chosen to call the little guy Pawsley.
Had Jonathan ever done that before?
He didn’t think so, but he could re-read their texts and check. With Ribby snoring next to him, happy to be taking Jonathan’s usual space, he had nothing but time.
He scrolled back and back and back to read their messages, the mundane about when Jonathan’s shift ended or Connor finished a soccer ref gig, the funny, the dirty, the sincere.
They’d written enough to be a book.
He sank into the texts from a couple days after they’d introduced Pawsley and Ribby, where they’d planned what to have for Friday night dinner.
They’d settled on homemade pizza with dough from his freezer.
That was the day of their hike, and before they’d left, he’d set the dough on the counter to thaw, so it had been ready when they’d returned.
That night, he could have done everything differently. He could have booped Jonathan on the nose with a flour-covered finger, and said, funny thing happened today, funny weird I mean.
Wait, he had done that, at least the booping. And Jonathan had laughed.
But Connor hadn’t said, “I forgot to mention that the guy I used to fool around with, the one we talked about, he texted me.” He didn’t remember what he’d actually said, but it wasn’t the thing he needed it to be. It wasn’t the truth.
He squeezed the miniature piece of cake in his fist and kept scrolling.
The handmade clay edges were rounded, not sharp, and they almost seemed to yield under pressure, even though he wanted the whole piece to dig harder into his palm and make him feel, make him ache in his hand the same way he ached in his chest.
This afternoon could have been different, too. He could have walked to the front of the house and seen Tony through the glass and turned around.
Left the hall. Not answered the door.
He wouldn’t have known Tony was drunk, or at least conning him into believing he was, so he’d be having dinner with Jonathan, listening to him chat about story time or Lily.
When it was his turn, he’d say, “The thing I predicted happened today, that guy showed up.” And Jonathan’s shoulders would tense and his lips would press together, and his detached pretending voice would say something like what did you do, because carefully neutral was how he sounded when he got stressed past sarcasm.
And in this better version, Connor would be able to pick up his fork and say, “I did nothing. I didn’t open the door, and he left.”
Why didn’t he have that future? Why had he screwed up with Tony and then lied about it? He pressed his fists into his eyes. In the world where he didn’t let Tony in, and Tony left, in that world, he’d never lied to Jonathan.
And Jonathan would still want him.
Today would be like yesterday. His world would be whole.
He opened his hand and looked at the clay love token. It was two layers of dark red cake, linked by a creamy white frosting layer. The white frosting on top had tiny red berry decorations.
But it was the smile that tugged at him. The round black eyes and smile. Jonathan must have been secretly waiting for Connor to find these.
In all the other timelines, he was cuddled in bed with Jonathan after they made dinner and played with their pets. Jonathan would show him a funny make-up tutorial, and he would maybe show Jonathan a goofy baseball clip, then they’d put their phones away to read.
But they wouldn’t read for long, because in all these other timelines, his hands would reach for Jonathan.
On his phone, Pawsley tumbled off Jonathan’s thigh, again and again. Pawsley slipped, but he landed softly.
He was a shit to leave Jonathan hanging.
Connor
I love the video
I love you.
Connor
I’m in bed
I need you.
Connor
Sorry
I’m so sorry.
He couldn’t fix today.