Page 115 of College Town

“Fuck,” Tommy grumbles against his neck, his breath warm and rum-scented, and it takes all of Lawson’s willpower to set him on his feet instead of hugging him close like a teddy bear.

“Can you stand?”

“Yes, I can fucking stand.”

“Grouchy.”

“The car’s too tall.”

“Uh-huh. That’s the problem.”

Tommy bats him away when he tries to put an arm around him, but then latches onto Lawson’s arm with both hands like a lifeline as they make their way around the car to the foot of the temporary stairs.

“I see how it is,” Lawson says. “Youcan’tstand, but we have to go through this little charade like I’m not helping you.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy says, and swallows with a thick, unhealthy sound. If he’s going to puke, Lawson wishes he’d do it out here. “I just…”

“Need to barf?”

“No. Just…”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah. Coffee’d be good.”

Tommy grinds to a halt at the stairs, and looks at them glumly.

“Want me to carry you up?”

Tommy’s answer is to squeeze his arm punishingly hard and start up them, which forces Lawson to keep pace. They make it to the door without incident, and Lawson lets them in with his keys. The kitchen is still bright and smells of dinner: pan-seared chicken and some sort of veggie, by the scents.

“God,” Tommy says, and lets go of Lawson with one hand to cover his nose and mouth.

Lawson propels him down into a chair and starts a pot of coffee. “You need to eat.”

“Ugh.”

“You do. You want some toast? Peanut butter sandwich?”

Tommy glances over at that, brows lifting in silent question.

Lawson shrugs. “That always works for me.”

After a moment, Tommy nods.

Lawson’s slicing the sandwich on the diagonal when Mom comes in, the quiet scuff of her slippers heralding her arrival.

“Hi, Mom,” Lawson says over his shoulder as he plates the sandwich and pulls a mug down out of the cabinet. “Dad okay?”

“He’s fine. But…” Mom chuckles. “I’m not sure poor Tommy is.”

When he turns, he sees Mom standing with arms folded, gazing fondly at Tommy, who’s put his head down on the table like he’s dying.

He lifts a limp hand and mutters against the wood, “Hi, Mrs. Granger.”

“Revenge of the tequila shots?” she guesses.

“Beer. And a mudslide,” Tommy laments in a pitiful voice.

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