Page 87 of College Town

“Ha!” he coughs. “Oh shit, that’s a good one.”

“I’m–”

“Being serious? So am I.No.”

Tommy’s hand stills for a moment, and Lawson hears the slow rustle of his breathing. He asks, “Did you major in Literature? You went here, right? Eastman U? You were a Lit major?”

“Don’t you already know that from your snooping?”

Tommy doesn’t answer that question. Instead, he says, “You’re good, Law. I’m not just saying that,” he says, sharply, when Lawson snorts. “You were good when we were kids, and there’s no way you’re not even better now. You majored in Lit, so you hadsomeconnections. Access to internships. You could have gone to New York, and worked at a publishing house. Started at the bottom and worked your way up.”

His hand cups firmly around Lawson’s chin and he tips his head back, so their eyes can meet.

Lawson’s eyes have adjusted since the phone was set aside, and he wishes they hadn’t, that he couldn’t see the downward curve of Tommy’s mouth, those big eyes made bigger by the dim light, brows beetled now with concern rather than concentration or pleasure.

“Lawson.”

“Don’t ask me,” Lawson whispers. “Please.”

The frown deepens. “Do you really mean that?”

When Lawson doesn’t answer, throat closing, tongue cleaving to the roof of his mouth, he says, so gentle, like he’s afraid of hurting him, “Why do you still live at home?”

Lawson wars with himself. He thinks of Dad, of his lopsided smile, and the need to wipe his mouth clean for him. Of the chair, and lifting him into the shower because insurance won’t cover a walk-in tub. He thinks of Tommy walking into the kitchen, with the same linoleum, wallpaper, and lace curtains that were there when he came for sleepovers in ninth grade. Thinks of what Tommy will see as an outsider, and can’t bear it. He can’t tell him.

But the small and craven child inside him that misses his first love wants so badly to share his pain that he twists his head out of Tommy’s grip – Tommy allows him to – and presses his cheek back to his thigh.

“Dad had a stroke,” he says, so softly he wonders if Tommy hears. “Ididget an internship, my senior year. Ididgo to New York. And Dad had a stroke, and I came home. I didn’t ever get my degree. Mom needed me, and I couldn’t – I couldn’t be selfish like that.”

Tommy’s hand spears back through his hair, but there’s no scratches or pets this time. He cups the back of Lawson’s skull and holds him. “Oh,sweetheart,” he whispers.

Now that he’s started talking, he can’t stop. “Mom cried,” he says. “When I walked in the door. She’s not a yeller, but she yelled that day: told me to go straight back to New York, that Dad wouldn’t want me to give up on my dreams for him. But he couldn’t…he can’t…even take a bath by himself. He can’t go up the stairs. He’s…he was this great, big man, big like me, and now he’s…just…small.”

Tommy’s traces his ear with his thumb.

“I think he’s happy. He seems happy. He got a little of his speech back. He can say, ‘I love you.’”

“Honey.” Tommy sniffs hard.

“Mom yelled, but there was no way I was leaving. Their insurance is shit, and she had to start working a second job. Between the two of us, we’ve managed. I’ve worked in every bar, restaurant, and shop in this fucking town. They oughta put me on the money,” he jokes flatly. “Sometimes downsizing pushes me out. Sometimes I get fired. I guess now I’ve lost Coffee Town.” He shrugs and the sheets rustle. “Whatever.”

Tommy makes a suspiciously wet sound.

“Don’t cry for me. You don’t get to cry about this.”

Tommy starts petting his hair again. “Okay,” he says, shakily.

Lawson feels a tear slide across the bridge of his nose, but he’s not really crying. This isn’t a new pain; it’s old, and calcified, and it hasn’t killed him yet.

Tommy sniffs again, and his voice comes out firm and normal, thank God. “You won’t lose Coffee Town. I’ll make sure of it.”

Lawson sighs. “Don’t.”

“No. It’s my fault you’ve missed work. I’ll talk to your manager. I’ll talk tohismanager. You’re not gonna lose your job because of me.”

“Right. How else will I sell the drugs?”

“Ugh.”

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