Page 38 of A Cure for Recovery

Lawson exhales. “No. But yeah.”

Tommy throws on jeans and a t-shirt so he can ride down in the elevator with Lawson and see him out to the sidewalk. Lawson protests that he doesn’t need to, but quickly begins talking a mile a minute in a clear effort to distract himself from the meeting.

“…I just think,” he says, as they push through the lobby doors and out into the humid, exhaust-scented midmorning air, “that making a live action version of a movie immediately kills everything magic about the animated version.”

There’s a cab idling at the curb, empty, and Tommy hails the driver with a wave of his hand and gets a nod in return. Then he stops, and turns to Lawson, and reaches to straighten his collar. “I don’t disagree with you, so I don’t know why you’re arguing about it,” Tommy says, “but it’s time to go.”

Lawson closes his eyes and screws his face up. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Tommy plucks a stray thread off his lapel and brushes down his shoulders just because he can, because he loves how wide and strong they are, exaggerated mouth-wateringly by the jacket. “You’re gonna kill it, babe.”

Lawson cracks his eyes open to squint at him. “You’re just saying that.”

“Nah. It’s true. You should try listening to me for once: I’m pretty damn smart.”

“Well, you married me, so…” When Tommy socks him in the arm, he smiles, and that’s what Tommy was aiming for.

“Kiss me and go, dummy.”

Lawson leans down and does so, and Tommy shoves him away when he grips his waist and tries to deepen it.

“Go, go,” Tommy says, laughing, “I love you, good luck.”

“Love you!”

Tommy watches the cab pull away from the curb and into the flow of traffic, and that’s when the practical calm that’s powered him through the morning abandons him completely, and nerves turn his hands jittery on his cane. So long as he was propping up Lawson, he was fine. But now, all he can envision is Lawson, alone, sitting across a massive mahogany desk, being told no, thanks, you’re not what we’re looking for. Lawson’s big, but he looks small in Tommy’s mind, in that nightmare scenario, tucked down into himself and swallowing thickly as someone with no idea how extraordinary he is dashes his dreams to pieces.

Tommy whips out his phone and texts Noah:ur taking me to lunch. Somewhere w/ a liquor license.Then goes back inside to fetch his wallet.

~*~

“Is this just what you do now?” Noah asks a half-hour later, after Tommy’s thrown back his first whiskey neat and signaled the waitress for another. “Day drink and scowl at people?”

Tommy shoots him the bird. “I have a job, dipshit.”

“Riiiiight.” Noah nods, mock-sage. “Selling insurance.”

“Fuck off.”

The interesting thing, he notes, in an absent, distracted way, is that he’s not even actually angry. The insults are rote, part of an automatic call and repeat that’s been his entire relationship with his twin. Everything he loves about Lawson – how much taller and larger and stronger he is; the way he pushes all of Tommy’s buttons; his loud laugh and his inappropriate comments – has always irritated the shit out of him on Noah. It’s the love goggles. Or maybe the fact that he knows Lawson cares more, capable of intense gentleness when he senses it’s necessary. Whatever the case, he’s usually pissed at Noah for some reason or other, but today, his digs roll right off Tommy’s back.

And Noah, cop that he is, notices, perking up in his chair. “Damn.”

“What?” His drink arrives, along with a basket of fries. “Thank you.” When she’s gone, he repeats, “What?”

“Do youlikeselling insurance?”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done for a paycheck.”

A muscle in Noah’s cheek twitches, and Tommy wonders which on-the-job shooting he’s thinking of. Or if he’s remembering the hospital, the wires and machinery hooked to Tommy’s body.

Then his face softens, and he grows serious, all traces of mockery gone. “Yeah, okay. But are you happy? Like, really happy?”

Tommy frowns, but he’s still not angry. “How often do we Skype, dude? You’ve seen me.”

“Yeah, and usually your Bigfoot half is loitering in the background. I’m sitting here talking to just you, and I wanna make sure:areyou happy? Tom,” he presses, when Tommy rolls his eyes, “you spent twenty years saying you were gonna go back to Eastman, and then you did. It would be normal if it turned out that wasn’t the happily ever after you always thought it would be.”

Tommy sends him a sharp look. Feels the first stirrings of anger.

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