30. Podium Performances #3
Connor stretched an arm across the folding table for him, not for cake. Then he must have sensed something that Jonathan didn’t think he was broadcasting, but who knows what signals his face was giving, because Connor snatched his hand away.
It was only a cake knife and wasn’t actually threatening. It was merely in Jonathan’s hand. He was certain his expression was as opaque as MAC lipstick, but he guessed the knife wasn’t stuck in the cake, either.
So. That.
“Please.” Connor’s voice sounded rough, like something blocked his throat, but Jonathan had zero fucks to give.
“Later.” Like after-Armageddon later. “This is a party.”
The catcher-ex-sort-of had been at Connor’s, and he’d concealed that, so he’d probably lied about being sick, too. All so he could hang out with a professional baseball player, someone who made millions of dollars and understood these stupid three balls four strikes or whatever rules.
Someone with whom he had more in common.
His chest was really tight, and his heart was doing weird things. He needed distance, maybe even a trans-continental amount of fucking distance.
“Here.” He thrust two cake-filled plates at Connor. “Take these to the refs. The umps. Whatever they’re called, whatever baseball players call them.” He lifted his chin in the direction of the two people wearing black pants standing a bit down the fence from the celebration.
Connor’s eyes glistened, shimmering pools Jonathan refused to look into, but then he nodded and turned to do what Jonathan had ordered. Of course he did.
As soon as Connor stepped away, Jonathan slipped past the celebrating team and their friends.
Softball Abby told him the cake looked delicious, and he smiled at her and agreed, as if he’d had anything to do with it.
Softball Danny thanked him for something, no idea what, as he kept walking.
Lily called his name and waved from the group where she was chatting, but he couldn’t lift his hand to reply.
Hank and Emma, the cutest couple in the world, even if they were best friends with that lying-sucking-jerk Connor, turned toward him, but he was moving faster because he had to be gone before Connor finished delivering cake.
He would erase himself from this life he’d let himself want. They were all a smear to Jonathan as he grabbed his bag from the ground, grabbed the cat carrier, screw the folding chair, he couldn’t take the time to pack it and wouldn’t sit in it again.
He’d let Connor into his life, into his apartment, into his heart, but none of that meant he could say, “Sure, Connor, I look forward to hearing why you betrayed me,” in a stupid calm voice.
Maybe tomorrow, or the day after, but he couldn’t be a grown-up here and now. He wasn’t going to talk about this until he wanted to. No one was going to have the power to play him like his mother and Mikhail used to do. He’d wait a day at least, maybe two. His choice. And his choices mattered.
He made it to his car before his eyes overflowed, which was a podium-level performance if he’d ever had one.
The click of the door locks seemed to flip a switch behind his eyelids, and no amount of blinking was going to stop this, but he fumbled for the handle and managed to get Pawsley—Kitten, he was Kitten, only ever Kitten—and his carrier into the back seat.
He locked up his lips but then the pressure was backing up into his head, and the noises were gross and coming out his nose and he had to stop this, had to stop right now, or he’d scare Kitten. Fuck this crying.
“I’m sorry.” Kitten was the best thing in his life. “I’m so sorry you won’t get to see Ribby again. Ribby was a very good dog. He is. I’m sorry.”
Fuck crying, forever. Fuck, he would not keep crying.
He crossed his arms tightly, like it was a spin, and let himself rock a tiny bit until he bumped into the car frame.
Standing between the open door and the car felt almost concealed, even though he was still in the parking lot.
He only needed another moment, and then he’d be able to drive home and put this T-shirt in the bathroom garbage, shower away the day, and go to bed until tomorrow.
Tomorrow he could decide whether to listen to Connor’s explanation before he told him to fuck off, or never see him again and let Connor figure out the fucking off part.
He couldn’t drive like this, though, because he couldn’t open his eyes.
Connor always wanted people to be safe to drive. He was so conscientious.
The words that had yanked out his carefully tended heart echoed somewhere inside his messy, sliced-up chest.
Hurt. Get help. Calls. Medical privacy.
They circled around and around, blending and bumping into each other inside his brain.
Calls for help. Ambulance calls?
He took a breath. And another breath. And he could open his eyes.
Blurry little kitten fluff stuck out of the mesh panel openings on the cat carrier.
Day One at the library when Connor had come in with Lauren and her daughter, he’d made assumptions, wrong ones, because he hadn’t trusted Connor.
Before the first slice of French toast, he’d almost lost him because he’d been deep in his usual suspicious, defensive, I’ll-hurt-myself-before-I-let-you-do-it spiral.
He stuck a finger toward his tiny doppelganger, and the kitten tried to touch him back, but the panel prevented it. He reached for the zipper and stuck his hand in the bag. A little cuddle and he’d be able to drive.
A bundle of comfort that was kitten-shaped climbed right up his palm and played with his cuff. Tiny teeth scraped the joint at the base of his thumb like he was a chew toy, and he felt his toes uncurl inside his shoes.
The black fur and flicking ears were like silk, and the little beans at the bottom of the white-dipped feet were precious.
Logically, he shouldn’t run away. Something was wrong with Connor, and the weird conversation maybe meant there’d been a 9-1-1 call.
He should listen to Connor instead of falling into the old thinking traps he was paying good money to dismantle.
“Jonathan?”
His name sounded small and wobbly, but he knew Connor’s voice. Whether a whisper or a shout from a plummeting roller-coaster, he’d always know Connor’s voice.
“Please?”