Page 5 of A Cure for Recovery

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Lawson doesn’t touch him all the way out to the car, and doesn’t offer to open the door for him. He doesn’t always. Sometimes it’s a hammed-up joke, and sometimes it’s sincere worry. It happens less and less, but this time, the lack of it coupled with the lack of touching leaves unpleasant prickles up the back of Tommy’s neck. He’s aware that he’s fucked up, but he’s spent seven months insisting he can do things for himself; he’s not sure why today was the breaking point.

Lawson turns on the radio, though, and talks over it, like normal. They debate what to get Lisa for Mother’s Day next month, and argue about the lyrics of two songs, and Lawson laughs, eyes crinkled at the corners, and it’s okay. It’s good.

They go home, change for work, Tommy in nice slacks and a nicer sweater, Lawson in his Coffee Town uniform of khakis, polo, and visor. Lawson drives him to work, and kisses him over the center console before he gets out.

“Love you.”

“Love you. Have a good rest of the day.”

It’s allnormal.

Except for the fact that Lawson doesn’t press him about his new doctorat all.

Immediately after the shooting, when Tommy still relied on a walker and was struggling to come back from having his colostomy reversed, Lawson didn’t sit in the waiting room. He came back to the exam room each time, nodding along, taking notes on his phone, asking the doctors lots of questions. Tommy was torn: he loved spending so much time together; loved Lawson’s big hands righting him when he stumbled, and guiding him, and squeezing him supportively on the arm, the neck, the waist, the thigh. He loved that Lawson’s love was writ so large in each pointed inquiry, and each follow-up, and each frown.

But a part of him, selfishly, resented the necessity for that particular brand of care. Forehead kisses and soup deliveries instead of sweaty, tangled nights and dinner dates. They were newlyweds, but instead of a honeymoon, they were going on never-ending trips to the doctor.

Before he was prescribed something to help him sleep, he used to lie awake at night, Lawson’s breath warm and even in his ear, where he was curled carefully around Tommy, not holding him for fear of hurting him, and his eyes would sting with unshed tears of frustration. He was so grateful, and so thankful, and so in love; was so lucky to be alive, and to have this second chance with the love of his life, to wear his ring on his finger. And yet they’d already lost twenty years, and they were playing invalid and caretaker, rather than husbands.

He hates himself for those thoughts, but they keep cropping up like mushrooms, his mind gone to damp, dark ground where flowers struggle to thrive.

When Lawson stopped coming back to the exam room at appointments, per Tommy’s request, he still grilled him all the way home about what the doctor said.

But not today.

He goes to work, he sells insurance policies, and deals with client woes. Lawson’s waiting in the parking lot at five, and he grins, and offers one of Coffee Town’s head-sized chocolate chip cookies across the console. “Brought ya something, handsome.”

That, at least, is normal, and the knot of tension that has been slowly winding tighter and tighter all day in the pit of Tommy’s stomach unravels by a few turns. “Ooh, my hero.”

“I try.” Lawson flexes his arm, as though it’s a joke, but, well,damn. Tommy’s in love with his biceps, and bites them as often as he can in appreciation.

They go home, and relieve Nancy the nurse. They check on Bill – there’s aFamily Feudmarathon on the Gameshow Network and he invites them to watch with him – and then change into more casual clothes. “Dad, Tommy can keep you company. I’ll start on dinner before Mom gets here,” Lawson says, and Tommy bites back a sigh. Not because he doesn’t enjoy visiting with his father-in-law – quite the opposite – but because he hates the idea that heneedsto rest. That he can’t stand at the counter at Lawson’s shoulder and help.

Over chicken parm – Tommy missed this sort of home-cooking so much in his twenty years away, but feels a stab of guilt that he can’t run it off – Lisa asks about his appointment.

“How was Dr. Wilson?” She sounds excited, fork poised above her plate. “Could she tell you anything new?”

Tommy’s bite of pasta sticks in his throat before he swallows it down like a lead ball. “She was…”

Fine, he starts to say. But Lawson’s gone still beside him, big body poised in an uncharacteristically careful way. He wants to know; he’s wanted to know all day, and, Tommy realizes with a drop in his stomach, he’s been waiting for Tommy to make the overture. Because he’s tired of making it himself? Because Tommy’s pushed him away one too many times?

Shit.

It’s easier, somehow, to look across the table and tell Lisa instead, while guilt churns his half-eaten dinner. He’s honest: “She was different than I expected.”

Lisa’s brows go up. “Really? In a positive way?”

He pictures Dr. Wilson’s bright smile, and takes a deep breath, and wills some of his useless tension away. “Yeah, definitely. A little more laid back than some of the others I’ve seen, but more helpful, too.”

“Oh?”

Needlessly, stupidly, his face warms. “She says that it’s normal to still be…” Falling. Going numb. Staggering. Nearly braining himself in the shower. “Struggling,” he settles for. “She said there’s no timeline on nerve regeneration and that I should – should give myself more time.” His teeth grit on the last, and he swallows, and works to unstick his jaw. He had no idea he was so prideful until this all happened; he thinks Lawson would laugh if he said as much.Ha! Baby, you’ve always been a tyrant. “She, um. She showed me a better way to walk. So that I don’t trip so much.”

“Oh,” Lisa says again, delighted this time. “That’s wonderful.”

Beside him, Lawson lets out a deep breath. “Is that what that was? Earlier?”

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