42. Happiness is Not a Possession
HAPPINESS IS NOT A POSSESSION
After another obscenely early wake up, time spent with the horses, and a breakfast that ensured Jonathan didn’t need to eat until Monday, he stood next to his car watching Connor stuff a suitcase into the back seat. The bikes had never come off the rack.
“I don’t want to go back. What am I saying? Who am I?”
“That’s the John Day Valley for you.” Connor smirked at him like a villain on a Housewives franchise before he let the door thud closed. “But you’ll see Pawsley tonight.”
“True.” Jonathan tried not to whimper as he watched Connor turn and walk away in his faded jeans. Pawsley and his job mattered, and he’d be glad to be with his fuzzy soft munchkin, but they didn’t look like that.
“I need a paycheck if I want to buy the good kitten food and somehow, it’s a mystery to me how, but I’m running low on my cleansers.”
“That’s a very accusative eyebrow. I can hear it all the way over here.” Connor walked slowly around Jonathan’s car, looking at the tires. “I’ll be back Friday. Five days.”
“Long enough for me to restock. Lucky you. And have you been wearing your sunblock? Do I need to leave one of mine here?”
Jonathan had five days to organize a birthday, which wouldn’t be difficult, because he’d already done most of the shopping, and Connor had amply demonstrated that he was far, far, too easy.
A party that Jonathan planned, even if it wasn’t Met Gala level swank or influencer level swag, would be perfect for Connor.
A Rebecca quote popped into his head, and he whispered into the shimmering air, quietly testing the shape of the words for their truth. “Happiness is not a possession to be prized, it is a quality of thought, a state of mind.”
Even from the other side of the car, Connor must have heard. “You know I’ve been reading your book, backwards, forwards and Sundays. I know it’s not all evil housekeepers. I recognize that, mainly because you underlined it in a pink gel pen, you bad librarian, but yeah. Happiness.”
“Oh.” He heard himself echo Connor in the single, bewildered syllable.
Even if they ended up sounding alike, they would never dress alike, this he could spray paint on the side of the ginormous barn or tattoo on his ass. They would never dress alike.
Connor came very slowly around the front of the car, staring at Jonathan. “The narrator turns out to be strong, although why she never gets a name, I will never understand. But she and Max eventually learn to communicate. When death is on the line.”
“Ohmigod, stop with that.” He swatted at Connor, who was six feet away and thus immune to Jonathan’s flapping hand. “You cannot put your Princess Bride in my Rebecca.”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do when I get back. Maybe against a wall.”
Jonathan covered his flaming cheeks with his palms. “Stop!”
“Tires look good.” Connor stopped beside him. “And for the record, my thoughts and state of mind are happy, too.”
He reached out to lift Jonathan’s hands away from his face and linked their fingers, like they were going to gambol around the lawn. If Connor suggested it, Jonathan might. He’d clearly transformed into a baby deer, a singing fawn, or worse, a musical candelabra.
If they were going deep in movie-world, the thing struggling to escape his chest was probably an alien xenomorph and he should let it burst out already and consume them both.
“I love you.” It felt so good to say that first, he didn’t know why he hadn’t. “I. Love. You.”
Connor stepped back and grinned. “I know.”
He felt his mouth open and he wasn’t sure whether a shriek or a laugh or an epithet was going to tumble out, or all of them, and in what order. “You!”
Connor laughed so hard that he had to bend and put his hands on his thighs, the fucker. “Grumpy cat face, incoming!”
Jonathan wouldn’t kick anything, not Connor’s shin, not a tire, not even this highly kickable gravel, nothing, but only because his sneakers were cute, and scuff-removal was almost as annoying as his boyfriend.
Who had not stopped laughing.
“And for the record, I love you too.”
The jerk was still laughing.
Connor’s mother pushed the back door open with her hip, carrying a box that strained her arms. “I have a few things for you to take, Jonathan.”
Connor finally straightened, but didn’t stop grinning as he trotted over to grab the cardboard carton. That profile view, from dimple to denim-wrapped thighs, was dangerously unfair for susceptible gay boys like him. No matter which view of that ass he saw, he was fucking doomed.
Going home by himself was going to suck.
“I got this, Mom.”
While Connor situated the box next to the suitcase, Jennifer explained that it was cherry jam and other jars of preserves—this year’s, not last’s—a bunch of firm apricots that should ripen well on the counter, a packed lunch—put that in the front, wait, why is there a stuffed pony buckled in the passenger seat Connor why did you do that you know children go in the back—a container of frozen vegetarian chili that would do double duty to keep everything cold while he drove but be nicely thawed for dinner by the time he was home, and also a bottle of home-pressed cider—don’t worry, it’s pasteurized, we have cows and chickens so of course we home pasteurize.
Connor stood behind his mother’s back, making a talking-hand gesture and bobbing his head.
“If you could save the jars and bottles and make sure they come back over to the ranch next time, that’d be wonderful. Also, Connor, I know what you’re doing behind me. You’re not too old to get Grandma’s wooden spoon.”
“But I’m too fast.” Connor wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist and lifted her off her feet. “Can’t catch me if you can’t run!”
“Con-nor!”
He felt almost dizzy with the joy emanating from the McMillans.
This was a Christmas movie, only set in the summer and with gays and a not-white main character, but still, he was in a Christmas movie.
Toss around the white fluff, give him a chunky cable knit sweater, and he’d be looking for a fresh coffee from craft services.
No idea what Old Jonathan would have said about this, but New Jonathan blurted, “I can’t leave. I can’t.”
Connor let his mother go, and she laughed and swept up to Jonathan. Her arms were solid around his body, and she smelled like pancakes and soap.
“Come back anytime, sweetie. Anytime. You don’t even have to bring Connor with you, since he’s so rude to his mother.”
Then she whispered in his ear. “I put copies of that picture we talked about and the one you emailed me in matching frames in the bottom of the box. I think that’s a great idea.”
Matchy-matchy. It made his heart happy; his eyes, not so much, but his heart was what mattered.
Jonathan hugged back, hard.
Five nights apart from Connor meant five days filled with work and, after he’d finished the homemade chili, pathetic apartment dinners of lackluster avocado toast with sesame seeds that didn’t successfully conceal the stringy brown parts.
Jonathan suspected he might be slightly useless without Connor.
Pawsley was wonderful, a torpedo of chirrups and rumbles who attempted a salchow off the climbing tree Lily had procured during her weekend custody stint.
He also joined a Tuesday group ride, working his legs until they burned, and invited Lily over without being blackmailed into it, all to do something that he could tell Connor about in their nightly calls.
So, he functioned, probably better than in the before-Connor time, if the kitten and the cycling and the having Lily in for drinks were measured. But none of it gave him the with-Connor glow, the with-Connor laughter, or the with-Connor feeling of home.
That feeling lived here in Connor’s house, where he waited in the redecorated entry hall.
The space was ready. It gleamed, it smelled nice, and the mirror hanging over the shoe cabinet was level. According to his recent text, Connor should be turning into the street.
He was riding a nervous spiral in the wrong direction, and he didn’t want Connor to come in via the back door, so he went to the porch, breathed, and hopped on the balls of his feet a little tiny bit.
Within minutes, the Subaru pulled in and a dog nose was touching his face and how was that no longer something to complain about.
Then Connor pulled him away from Ribby and into his arms. “I guess I know where I stand around here.”
“Come in and get against the door and I’ll show you where you stand.” That came out more forcefully than he’d intended, the fault of nerves, or maybe need. Or both.
His boyfriend, a designation that had become extremely easy to adopt after the past week of missing the galloping blond giant, had already yanked open the door and let Ribby dash past.
Connor thumped his hand on the small of Jonathan’s back and pushed him over the threshold.
For a millisecond he thought that Connor wouldn’t notice the changes, he was so focused on getting their hands and mouths on each other, but then Connor froze.
“What happened?” His lips parted and he spun his head to take in the hallway. “This is amazing.”
Jonathan held the word amazing, and the tone of delight and surprise, in his heart. “You wanted to redo it, and I didn’t want you to have to put it on your list like you do with all the other things around the house. I wanted to help you with it.”
They both left the open-ended antecedent of that particular “it” unexplored. It could mean decorating the hallway, it could be processing the violence that had happened here, it could be the previous eight years of Tony. It was it, and it was done. Finished.
Jonathan knew Connor had made each day better for him, and he wanted to do the same.
Connor took his time touching everything. Trailing a hand along the glossy white cabinet, pulling on the gold handles and looking at the shoes stored inside, brushing one finger across the indigo-colored paint and stroking the freshly whitened baseboards and trim.
He sniffed the pillar candle and looked inside the treat jar and stared for a long moment into the gold-framed mirror.
Specifically at Jonathan, who stood slightly behind him in a pressed pair of white linen pants, a gold belt and a cropped royal blue and white striped tee with a wide neckline that slipped to the side.
He’d deliberately matched his clothes to the colors of his work product. Connor had better not comment on that.
The silence stretched without Connor speaking.
Maybe the table lamp with a sleeping greyhound as its base was a bit too much, or not as cute as he’d thought when he saw it online. He should offer to return it, but his mouth was too dry.
“Jonathan, these were your things.” Connor’s voice was low and steady. “These are from your apartment.”
“I know, I know, I’m sorry. But you needed them and I wanted to share and there is no taking them back. I already filled their spots.”
He wasn’t supposed to lie, but this was in a higher service, so he absolved himself.
“No space at my place. No backsies.”
“No backsies, huh?” The edge of Connor’s lips twisted. Before Jonathan could decode that expression, because it was almost mysterious rather than Connor’s usual candidly gratuitous, open smile, he’d grabbed Ribby’s collar. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”
They whisked upstairs, a relief because those slow, deep words had operated at a level that made him tremble, and Connor knew Jonathan didn’t like to be watched by a dog, not while doing that.
He heard Connor put Ribby in the bedroom, shut the door, and then clomp down the stairs like he was trying to stretch a hit for an extra base.
Yes, Jonathan remembered the terms he’d learned this summer. Most. Or at least several, but Connor would remind him.
Then the baseball thoughts, indeed all the thoughts, stopped when Connor hustled him against the door, Connor thrust his thigh between Jonathan’s legs, Connor groaned against his neck. Everything in the moment was all Connor.
“Touch me. I need you to touch me. You give me your fancy things but the only thing I need is you.”
“I love you.” Jonathan breathed the words into Connor’s ear before he kissed him, because this was the most important part, more vital than lips or hands or skin. “I love you.”
He’d try his damnedest to replace what had happened in this hallway with a better memory, a sweeter memory, a memory of pretty blue and white things and scented candles and his love.
And Jonathan was a competitive asshole who played dirty with mirrors and kisses and really good sex, and he’d take odds that Connor wouldn’t remember if his middle name was David or Duke before they were done here.
That was his goal and he played to win.
Connor shuddered, his lips repeating words against Jonathan’s lips, Connor’s hand stroking messages up and down Jonathan’s back. They were the same words.
I love you.
I love you.