Page 61 of College Town

When he hangs up, he lies back, and closes his eyes, and can’t fall asleep, no matter how tired he is.

~*~

He does fall asleep, though, or at least dozes. A sharp knock at the door rouses him, and he opens his eyes to see that the light’s changed, the room plunged in shadows because he didn’t turn the lamps on and it’s almost night beyond the window, that early drawdown of day that happens this time of year.

He rubs the grit from his eyes and sits up, and the door swings open, light spilling in from the hallway around the silhouette of a tall, masculine figure.

It’s not Tommy, and Lawson didn’t know until right this moment that the appearance of anyone else would send a hard jolt of fear through his system, but that’s what happens. He swallows a gasp, and then stands, rounds the bed to get to the far side, and flicks on the bedside lamp. The room floods with a warm, buttery glow, and he sees that it’s Noah looming in the doorway, a faint scowl marring a face that’s more youthful, less lined, and far less handsome than Tommy’s.

“Come in, Lurch,” Lawson says, cloaking himself in humor and false bravado.

“You’re as tall as me,” Noah grumbles, and steps inside. “And built weirder.”

“Aw, thanks, buddy. It’s nice to know you’re still sweet as sugar.”

Noahtsks. He’s carrying a bundle of something that he sets on the bed and reveals itself to be a stack of clothes. He starts splitting them into smaller piles. Lawson sees denim, and a soft-looking hoodie. Plaid flannel that’s probably pajama pants, and a few t-shirts. Even socks. And a still-wrapped three-pack of Fruit of the Loom boxers.

Lawson leans over the bed and snags the corner of the package. “These from your personal collection?” When Noah glares at him, he says, “Wait, no. Nothing but silk tiger stripes for you, right? Aw, Noah. Did you run to Target and buy me undies?”

“I hate you,” Noah says, flatly, and turns to leave.

“You didn’t use to,” Lawson says, and Noah halts. Too late, Lawson registers that he’s dropped the teasing act, and the words came out far too honest. They’re true, though. Theywerefriends. They were the Fantastic Four, once.

Over his shoulder, Noah says, “Don’t romanticize the past, Lawson. We were dumb kids, and you were way too idealistic.”

“Okay, so maybe you hated me,” Lawson allows, though it stings. “But you didn’t hate Dana.”

He sees a bolt of tension steal down Noah’s spine: a single, subtle, full-body twitch; a lockdown. “I wanted in Dana’s pants,” he says, crudely. “Just like Tommy wanted into yours, for some reason. It was just hormone shit.”

He leaves Lawson standing on the far side of the bed, hands curling tight on the sleeve of a borrowed hoodie, and slams the door in his wake.

~*~

A much more polite knocks sounds a half-hour later. Lawson’s showered by this point, clean and damp-haired, wearing Noah’s thick black sweats and hoodie, sitting cross-legged on top of the bed, bare feet pale against the dark comforter that he probably should have folded back for propriety’s sake. He jerks upright when he hears the knock, and braces for someone – hopefully not Noah this time – to barge inside.

But when no one does, he calls, “Uh, come in?”

The door opens slowly, and then he wishes he pretended to be asleep, because the fiancée, Natalia, slides eel-smooth into the room and leans back against the door once she closes it. She looks as fabulous as he remembers, dressed all in black. Wide-leg trousers and a clinging turtleneck sweater with the sleeves pushed up. She wears her hair in a loose, midnight spill pulled over one shoulder, and somehow her deep maroon lipstick and heavy eyebrow pencil work against her very pale face, though the effect should be garish and over-dramatic.

Lawson feels a deep-seated, instinctual surge of jealousy. A kneejerk reaction he then tries to smoor with Tommy’s earlier words.It’s not real. We don’t do anything. If that’s true, then Tommy really must be gay, because Lawson can’t envision a straight man turning down the barest crumb of attention from a woman like this.

She smiles at him. “Hello.”

“Hi.”

“May I sit?”

There’s a chair in the corner, a wingback with a dainty, elbow-height table beside it just large enough for a book and a drink. “Uh, sure.”

She doesn’t go to the chair, but comes to perch on the edge of the bed, near his knee, legs crossed with her torso angled toward him.

Lawson wants to be anywhere else.

She gives him a toothpaste commercial white smile and says, “How are you doing?”

She’s not a mail-order bride, Lawson reminds himself.And she isn’t stupid. Her family does some very illegal and violent shit.

“I’ve been better,” he says.

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