Page 44 of College Town

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.” Self-consciousness reared its ugly head, as it did far too often. “Wait. Does that mean…the stuff we have done, do you…not…? Did I do something wrong, or…?”

Tommy sucked in a breath, and his eyes widened. Both hands flew to Lawson’s face, cradled it firmly. “No, Law. Everything’s good. Everything’s perfect. You didn’t doanythingwrong.”

Lawson believed him – mostly. He was being painfully sincere, and he’d certainly been enthusiastic every time they’d been up here. By this point, Lawson felt like a blow job pro, both receiving and giving. And Tommy was amazing, all sly, slippery tongue flicks and deft fingers. But if Tommy’d been thinking…if he wanted totry something…

“Okay,” Lawson said. He thought he didn’t soundtoonervous.

“I…” Tommy started, took a big breath, and then said, all in a rush, “I want you to fuck me.”

“Okay,” Lawson said, then, “wait.” Because his brain had dismissed the statement at first – there was no way Tommy had saidthat, not when the very idea of it was so thrilling he barely allowed himself to fantasize about it – and he had no idea what Tommy had actually said. “What?”

Tommy cocked his head to the side, and his lips twitched, fighting off a smile. His gaze narrowed, accusatory, but Lawson knew all his expressions by heart, and knew he was more charmed than annoyed. “Are you serious? Did you really not understand what I just said?”

“Well.” Lawson flexed his fingers against Tommy’s hips, and felt him shift forward into the touch, grinding them together through their jeans. “Itsoundedlike you said you wanted me to…”

“Fuck me.” Tommy said it firmly, like he was sure, despite the hectic blush high on his cheekbones. “Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Lawson let out a long, slow breath that did nothing to soothe his jackrabbiting heart.

Tommy sat back, face clouding. “I mean. Unless you don’twant–”

“Oh no, I want!” He tried to smile. “I definitely want. I just…I don’t want to hurt you.”

Tommy scooted in close again, determination stealing over his features. It was a good look on him. “You won’t.” He sounded sure again. Confident. He dragged a hand down Lawson’s chest, and curled his fingertips in his waistband. “Fuck me,” he murmured, voice gone shockingly low and throaty. “I really want you to.”

~*~

Lawson presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until red and yellow spots bloom across the blackness of his closed lids. By the time early spring rolled around, and the disaster of their last night unfolded like a bad telenovela, they’d been old hat at full-on fucking. But that first time, on McGarry Road, in the back of the Le Sabre, is stamped in indelible ink on his brainstem.

He tries not to think of it often. It visits his dreams, more often than he’d like, but when he’s awake, he carefully shuts the door on those memories. Now, though, after the turmoil of the last few days…

“Weren’t you his lover?”

…he’s defenseless against that old, sharp-sweet tug, and he drowns in remembrance, like a film reel he can’t switch off.

He remembers the cool slick of the lube that Tommy produced from his backpack, slippery KY between his trembling fingers. The way Tommy hitched, and jerked, and whimpered, spread across his lap, breathing, “No, it’s good, it’s good,” each time Lawson got nervous he was going too fast, too hard. Tommy bought lube, but not condoms, too embarrassed, and so Lawson’s whole body flushes hot and tight with the memory of pressing into him for the first time, bare and slow, so slow, Tommy whining and whimpering, and scratching his shoulders.

He remembers wanting to live inside him. To merge into one creature. He wants that, still, but it’s a want undercut by the vicious knife of loss. Of jealousy, when he thinks of the fiancée, dark and lovely and so much better-suited for this new adult, suit-wearing, striking version of Tommy who calls himself Tom.

He sits up, wipes his face, and slams his laptop shut. It’s almost ten, now, and time for Dad’s bath.

19

Lawson opens the shop the next day.

He doesn’t like getting up early – Coffee Town opens at six, which gives him just enough time to roll out of bed at five-thirty, brush his teeth, and attempt to brush his hair – but he likes the dark, and the solitude, and the quiet. Kyle doesn’t show up until seven, which is when most of their customers start to roll in, and Jen arrives around then as well; she will have left cinnamon buns rising the night before, and Lawson slots them into the oven, along with the pre-prepared pans of scones and biscuits, right after he unlocks the door and dons his apron.

It’s just him, and the ovens, and the warming coffee makers, and the chairs which he takes down off the tables and sets neatly in place.

He’s lining up the ceramic mugs – “for here” versus “to go” – on the shelf behind the counter when he hears the bell jangle, and glances up, customer service smile sliding into place automatically.

“Good morning, welcome to Coffee Town,” he greets, by rote.

Then he takes a good look at the man standing just inside the door.

Familiar, is his first thought, but that makes no sense because he’s never seen this guy before. He’s older, gray-headed, but elegant. Very put-together, in an obviously tailored suit and gleaming wingtips. He’s got a pocket square, and a glittering watch that he checks, before lifting his head to meet Lawson’s gaze. When he does, Lawson sees a time-worn face, harsh with a frown that is achingly, breathtakingly similar to one he’s dreamt about for two decades. The eyes are the same, that big, coffee-stained brown, dark brows beetling above them in a drawn-out, near-comical display of concern.

“Good morning,” the stranger/not-stranger returns, striding toward the counter, giving Lawson an uncompromising once-over. His accent is New York heavy, colored with delis, with subway trains, with yellow taxis. Like something out of a movie. He strides up to the counter, and says, eyes trained on Lawson’s nametag, “You’re Lawson Granger, then.”

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