Page 87 of All The Things: The Last Thing He Needs Omnibus

Bobby had to think for a moment. “I feel like songs should have subcategories for favorites,” he said. “I like a lot of different kinds of music. Stuff to dance to, stuff to relax to, stuff for road trips… there’s a lot to choose from.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, almost defeated. “I usually just listen to whatever’s on the radio, ya know? And I like classic rock, but I think that’s mostly because my mom liked it and played a lot of the old songs when she was in a good mood, same with my old man.”

The fact that Tom had even one good memory from them was a shock, but it happened occasionally.

“Even he has favorites. What the fuck.”

He didn’t say Cal’s name, but Bobby knew who he was talking about. Of course Cal had favorites and knew what he liked and didn’t like. He’d had all the time in the world to figure that shit out because his oldest son was there to clean up after all of his messes. Bobby had to bite his tongue on that one, though, because as much as he’d like to say it, he knew it wouldn’t help. Instead, he said, “We’ll put a pin in the music for now. What about movies?”

“Christ,” Tom muttered, tucking his jacket more tightly around himself. “I don’t know. I usually just watch whatever’s on, what the kids wanna see or what you pick. I… I don’t know, and it’s pissing me off.” With a growl, he added, “How the fuck do you figure out what you like or what you want when you’ve never let yourself want anything or like anything because the odds of getting it a second time are zero?”

Frustration radiated off him, tension in every muscle. Bobby wanted to pull him into a tight hug, hold him close, but he knew Tom better than that. “Let’s just go in here and get a coffee?” He pulled the door open to the convenience store—the same one Bobby had found Tom trying to steal the babies some Tylenol drops a million years ago on a night that would change the course of both of their lives forever.

Tom didn’t say anything as he walked inside, toward the back to the coffee machine, and started putting one together for Bobby first, then himself. Because of course.

At the register, he eyed the cigarette display behind the clerk, and Bobby could practically feel Tom’s fingers itching for one.

“And a pack of Marlboro Reds,” Bobby said as he pulled a twenty from his pocket.

Even as the clerk grabbed the pack and set it on the counter, Tom looked so torn between gratitude and annoyance it was almost funny.

“The only reason you hadn’t bought a pack yet is because I caught up to you,” Bobby said as he slid them toward Tom. “And a couple of cigarettes is probably better than you having a mental breakdown on the sidewalk.” He grabbed both of their coffees with his change and followed Tom out the door again.

“You’re not wrong,” Tommy said as he slapped the pack on the palm of his hand a few times before ripping it open like a starving man with a bag of chips. He’d been trying to quit smoking for more than a year, maybe two now. It was hit-and-miss, but Bobby didn’t care. Yeah, he wanted Tom to live a long, healthy life, but he also wanted Tom to be sane, and sometimes that meant choosing the lesser of two evils.

He lit up and took three long drags before he said anything. “Thanks for this. I know they’re stupid expensive, and I shouldn’t be doin’ it…”

“Shut up and smoke your cigarette. At least you know your favorite for that,” Bobby said with a smile as he passed Tom’s coffee back to him. “Why don’t we head back to the car? Turn on the heat. We don’t have to go home yet if you’re not ready, but I’m freezing my balls off out here.” Bobby had left in such a hurry he hadn’t put more than his hoodie on, and that didn’t do much against the bitter winter chill.

“Shit,” Tom muttered, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he started to shift out of his jacket. “Here, take mine.”

Before he could get one arm out, Bobby stopped him. “Or you keep that on, and we go sit in the car.” Which was what he really wanted.

He didn’t say anything but turned back toward the candy store, where Bobby had found him. After several minutes—and another cigarette—Tom said, “I don’t want you to think I changed my mind about getting married. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know.” He hadn’t, not for sure. Tom’s sideways glance, his crooked smirk, spoke volumes. The asshole really did know him well. “Okay, now I know.”

Tom huffed a laugh, and Bobby couldn’t help but smile.

“So what did you change your mind about?”

“I don’t know,” he said before taking a sip from his coffee, then another, probably buying himself some time, thinking. After a few long beats, almost another block covered, Tom finally said, “Maybe not the courthouse, ya know? Maybe somewhere a little nicer. Maybe a party after instead of just family dinner. Nothin’ big or expensive or anything, but… something.”

Because spending even a few thousands of dollars on one night of their life would, of course, be out of the question for Tom. And, if he were honest, Bobby agreed. He’d rather blow it all on the honeymoon, like they’d discussed. Or keep saving and buy a house or just be able to retire one day. “Something is good,” he agreed. Something sounded nice. So did the courthouse, so did just family dinner. But something would be good too. Bobby didn’t really give a damn. He wanted Tom. Wanted Tom to be his husband and his partner for the rest of their lives. The wedding was just window dressing. “Maybe Gene would let us have the pub for a day? Do it there? Or at least a party there after?”

If Tom’s scowl was anything to go by, the answer to that was no.

“Maybe,” Tom said. Then lit another cigarette just as they got to the car.

Bobby would be happy getting married right then and there if it meant he could get in and turn the heat on, but Tom seemed content to stand there, while snowflakes caught in his hair and eyelashes, and set up camp for the night.

After a long drag and the last sip of his coffee, Tom said, “I like it there, ya know? It’s a good place. I’m happy there. But it just ain’t right. Not for somethin’ special.”

And just like that, Bobby wasn’t cold anymore. He understood, from one breath to the next, what was eating at Tom. Special. He’d never had anything special in his entire fucking life and probably thought he wouldn’t ever again. So getting married was his something special—their something special—and Bobby would stand on the freezing sidewalk until he died of hypothermia if Tom wanted to, if it meant he could figure out what special was. “You’re right,” Bobby said. “We can do better than that.”

“Yeah we can.” Tommy flipped his butt into the gutter and got in the car.

Thank God. Bobby’s fingers were about to turn purple.

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