Page 25 of College Town

His head lifted abruptly, and his gaze locked with Lawson’s, grave and old. An ageless gaze of wisdom and fear that didn’t belong on a sixteen-year-old. “Law, my uncle is fuckingterrifying.” He flipped his hand, quickly, so he could lace their fingers together and squeeze tight. “I don’t ever want him to meet you, I don’t ever want – anything – anything to happen to you – I–”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Lawson said, squeezing his hand back. “I don’t ever have to meet him.” His thoughts were racing. What the hell? Where had this come from? He’d never actually met Tommy’s mother, had only seen her pinched face through car and house windows, and sure he’d started to suspect something was a little off, but he wasn’t prepared for this level of fear.

Tommy searched his face a moment, expression pleading, then nodded, and glanced toward the wall, toward Tommy’s squat bookshelf full of comics and pulpy sci-fi novels and the framedStar Warsmovie poster hanging above it. He took a series of slow, purposeful deep breaths, and then said, barely above a whisper, “You know how I said that my dad died right before we moved here?”

“Yeah.”

“He didn’t die. He was murdered.”

Lawson managed to throttle his gasp, but couldn’t swallow it completely.

Tommy’s hand spasmed around his, and it didn’t feel like an intentional squeeze, but like his whole body had seized up with tension. He shuddered, afterward, the movement traveling through their pressed-together knees, their linked hands, echoing deep in the center of Lawson’s chest.

“I don’t know all the details,” Tommy said, breathing heavily, “but I know that he was murdered, and that Mom screamed about it. I know that my uncle knew about it, and that he didn’t…he didn’t…” He breathed heavily and wiped at his face with his free hand. “We had to leave New York. I knew that. And I know that my mom is scared, and that…” He sniffed, hard. “I can’t say what, but my dad was into some bad stuff, and someone murdered him, and now my mom is terrified of everything, and when my uncle comes around, Mom gets super upset, and…” His breathing grew even more labored.

“I’m sorry,” Lawson said, and then, when Tommy bent his head over their joined hands: “You know it doesn’t bother me, right? Tommy?”

Tommy kissed the back of his hand, and held him there, for several meaningful minutes.

“I’m sorry,” Lawson said again, and when his voice cracked, Tommy turned his head and kissed him, deep and hard.

Now, adult, gorgeous, stubbled, Tommy says, “I didn’t want to leave. Law, God, Ineverwanted to leave.”

Lawson tries to juggle Then and Now. Tries to rectify the boy who clutched his hand with the one who left him. He breathes deeply a moment, drains his drink, looks away.

“Okay,” Lawson says, his heart throbbing. He checks his phone, which hurts. “You have five minutes. Tell me what happened that made you leave like that.”

Tommy makes a face, then he exhales sharply, catches Lawson’s eyes, and says, “I can’t tell you.”

“Right. Cool. Okay.” Lawson drains the last of his drink and braces his hands on the table, ready to slide out of the booth.

“Wait!” Tommy’s hand flies across the table, flapping and shaking like a bird. “Wait, please, just – I can’t tell youeverything. But I can…” He sighs. “I can tell yousome. I can try to make you understand.”

The (small) voice of reason in the back of Lawson’s head screamsleave! Get the hell out while you still can! With somedignity, for God’s sake!But his heart is bruised and tender at the base of his throat, pounding wildly, so he subsides. “Three minutes.”

Tommy glances away, scrubs at his jaw, muscle in his cheek leaping. But he nods, and takes a big breath, and fixes him with a resolute look that glitters with things unsaid. A restrained sort of look, one that makes Lawson both hot and cold.

He thinks, in the beat before Tommy starts talking, that he doesn’t know the man sitting across from him at all. That he maybeneverknew him, even when they were fumbling kids.

Tommy braces his forearms on the table, leans forward, and all but whispers, voice barely discernable above the clack of pool balls. “I told you about my dad.” He waits for Lawson to nod, then continues. “But it wasn’t just my dad. It was a bunch of people he worked with, too. It was…” He makes a frustrated face, fingertips rapping on the tabletop. “We left New York because we were in danger, which meant the family business got dumped in my uncle’s lap – temporarily. The idea was always for us to go back, but I didn’t think it would be as soon as it happened, and–”

“Wait,” Lawson says. “Are you saying your dad was murdered by aserial killer?”

Tommy glances frantically around them. “Don’t say it so loud.”

“You said him and ‘a bunch of other people.’ Is your dad in some Netflix documentary I don’t know about? Vic number five?”

It’s a low blow, and anger flares accordingly in Tommy’s gaze. Hurt, too, quickly masked. “It wasn’t – no, it wasn’t like that. It was dangerous people taking out people who they thought wronged them. It was…”

Lawson doesn’t hear what he says next, because a low, panicked whine starts up in his ears. He called him a mob boss in his own head, and at Dana’s, because of his flashy suit, his watch, his tightly-gelled hair. Hislook. But now…

“Shit,” Lawson says. “Are you…fuck, Tommy, are you in–”

Tommy’s gaze widens, like he knows what Lawson’s about to say. He holds up a flat, staying palm. “Law–”

“Are you in themafia?!”

Tommy’s eyebrows slam down over furious eyes, and he hisses, “Say it a little louder why don’t you?”

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