Page 177 of Checking Out the Librarian

She pulled out of his arms. “Connor.”

His mother said his name with a breathlessness that he couldn’t really understand, because a lot had happened in a very short time, and he might be shutting down. Like, the fan to cool his brain’s CPU hadn’t quite kicked in and his gray matter was about to fry.

But since the conversation was going well, he threw everything in. “It’s kind of serious.”

“Really? Oh, Connor.”

He finally looked down at her, and her eyes were shining too. “Is Dad going to be okay with this? With me?”

“Of course, he loves you.” Her hands were firm on both sides of his face. She didn’t have soft hands, none of them did, but he didn’t want that. He wanted to be held tight by his mom.

“I don’t know how to tell him.”

She glanced around the kitchen. “We’ll do it together. All of us. At dinner.” Her gaze stopped on the wall clock that had hung over the door to the mudroom for his whole life. “I have time to roast a chicken. It’s just a five-pounder. I won’t wait for Sunday. We’ll do chicken and fixings, and you can tell your father, and then we’ll have apricot crisp.”

He felt a surge of giddiness, like he was drunk. Weird. “So, like please pass the fruit crisp, and oh, by the way, I’m fruity too?”

“No, not like that.” She squeezed his cheeks hard enough to give him fish lips and didn’t let go until he muttered stop.

This was his life.

How was this his life?

Dinner came too soon.

He hadn’t spent nearly enough time with Cashew, hadn’t had the chance to talk to Jonathan who was working late shift, and had barely had time to shower.

But suddenly, it was dinner, the moment of truth. It might be—no, it definitely would be—awkward, but his mother had promised it would also be okay, and yet for some reason he felt undecided between running away, throwing up, and going to his room.

No.

Grownups with jobs, mortgages and significant others did not run off to their rooms, so he joined his family at the table and nodded and passed the food as required.

He lifted his knife and fork and started on the plate in front of him, letting the others’ conversation drift across the day. Despite the July heat, his mom had whipped up a roast chicken with rosemary salt-crusted skin, really good sauteed green beans with bacon, so good he was going to ask her to explain how she made them, and his father’s favorite, smashed red potatoes.

Connor had reprised his childhood role of crushing each nugget-sized boiled potato with the bottom of a water glass, then peppered them before his mother roasted them to blacken up the edges. And she’d popped the apricot crisp in the oven as soon as she’d pulled out the chicken. How had she done all this?

He took a gulp of water and looked around the table. Jess gave him a wide-eyed, eyebrows-raised nod, appearing to barely restrain herself from flashing a thumbs-up. His mother might have brushed her hair before dinner, and she’d definitely changed her shirt. It gave her the look of a mom in a pharmaceutical ad.

“Chicken’s good, Mom. Really good.”

Three faces looked at him. No one spoke. Under the table, Ribby nudged his leg, but he wasn’t going to get food unless someone broke the rules. Everyone took another bite of something. How was his father not asking suspicious questions?

He couldn’t endure more silence. He wanted to say it would literally kill him but imagined Jonathan’s face when he misused that word. “So, what’s on the agenda for tomorrow, Dad?”

His father looked at him and smiled weirdly wide and showed his teeth, then sort of paused. While everyone stared, he blinked a couple times. “That’s a great question Connor. I really appreciate it when you talk to me. I mean, I like to talk with you. About anything. We can talk about anything.”

Jess coughed into her napkin.

“If you need more water, Jessica, take yourself to the sink.” His mom sounded steely.

In the pause, Connor looked around the table yet again. His mother and sister were leaning forward and staring at him. His dad was looking at his plate, and a few extra lines creased his forehead, but maybe those were left from wearing a hat all day.

He didn’t think he was mistaken to assume expectations of a big statement from him had been raised well before dinner had been set on the table.

Jess made jazz hands. He mouthed what the fuck across the table at her at the same time his mom swung her napkin at his sister.

He cleared his throat. “So, perhaps you’ve already heard this, but I’m gay.”