Page 125 of College Town

Mom catches Lawson’s eyes and gives him an approving look.

Lawson sends her an unimpressed one in return. This isn’t a new boyfriend feeling his way through the minefield of a first meeting with the parents. This isTommy; he grew up in this house with them. Of coursehe knows how to talk to Dad.

The thought hits Lawson like so many have lately: like a mental slap. That full-system shock of seeing the way Tommy slips so easily back into his life, his home, his family, his routine. The moment he convinces himself he has this whole scenario under control, he’s reminded painfully that he’s always been at the mercy of the boy – the man – sitting next to him at his mother’s table.

While they talk, Tommy cleans his plate with the air of a man who hasn’t eaten well in a long time. Lawson knows he goes to swanky restaurants and pays the tabs with his black AmEx, but he remembers the hollows above his hipbones, the stark lines of his abdominals, and nudges the basket of dinner rolls closer to him. Tommy takes one absently, and asks Dad if he can recommend any historical fiction.

Every time Mom catches Lawson’s eye, she gives him a scrunched-nosed, conspiratorial look.Look at our boys.

Lawson’snotready to havethatsort of relationship with his mother.

Or Tommy.

When they’re done, Mom tops up glasses, and holds her own in front of her on the table, posture shifting, settling in. It’s a pose Lawson’s seen the women adopt at all his family holiday dinners: the plates can wait, let’stalk. It’s a sight as familiar as the back of his own hand, though one he usually glimpses from the kids’ table, no matter how big and married and successful those kids are now. He’s never included in the post-meal drinks-and-gossip time at the table. And certainly not with a date.

Not that Tommy’s a date.

Christ. He either needs to get very drunk, or walk away.

Mom gathers a breath, gearing up to something, and Lawson stands. So quickly his chair judders back across the rug. “I’ll get these,” he says, and starts gathering empty plates.

“I can get them in a little while, honey,” Mom says, face falling.

Guilt needles him, but he stacks the dishes and heads for the kitchen anyway. “No, no, you cooked, I’ll clean.”

“You cooked, too,” she calls to his retreating back.

His guilt ratchets up as he scrapes the plates and goes to rinse them at the sink. He feels like shit, but all this pretending feels shittier, so he plugs the sink and starts filling it with suds.

A few minutes later, glassware clinks down on the counter. He glances over expecting his mother’s disappointed face, and instead finds Tommy, folding back the sleeves of his sweater.

“What are you doing?” Lawson asks, stupidly.

“Move over. You cooked, I’ll wash.” He steps into Lawson’s space and hip checks him over. Plucks the sponge from his hand.

“You don’t have to,” Lawson says.

“Yes, I do.” Tommy plunges his hands into the soapy water. “You can dry if you want.”

Lawson pulls a clean towel out of the drawer, and Tommy thankfully doesn’t ask why they’re doing this by hand rather than loading the dishwasher. They do have an appointment with a repair guy, for next week in fact; they’ve replaced the motor in the thing twice, and they ought to spring for a new one. If Lawson says this, he’s sure there’ll be a Lowe’s delivery truck in the driveway tomorrow, so he takes the clean, dripping plates from Tommy and dries them.

They work silently at first, nothing but the low murmur of the TV from the next room and the slosh of the water in the sink the only sounds.

When Tommy starts in on the pasta pot, he says, so quiet Lawson leans closer to hear him, “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

The near corner of Tommy’s mouth hitches upward, and it’s a sad sort of smile he bestows upon the pot in his sudsy hands. “What it’s like being here with your folks. Your family is…”

“Hanging by a thread?” Lawson suggests. He at least feels that way, most days.

“Warm,” Tommy corrects. “They love you, and they love each other, and I always felt…” He trails off, and shrugs. “I always felt like I was wanted, when I was here.”

Oh. Oh, damn. “You were.”

Tommy glances over, and his smile takes a truer curve before he refocuses on his task. “I’ve been doing some research,” he says, and Lawson gladly changes the subject.

“Oh yeah? New superhold hair gels?”

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