Page 52 of College Town

“Whoa.” Tommy catches him by both arms and steadies him. When Lawson tips his head down, he can see the top of Tommy’s, the gleam of too much hair product, and the well-remembered, much-loved cowlick at the back of his head, where a few rebellious hairs are trying to ruffle loose. “Shit,” Tommy mutters. “You got fucking tall.”

Under different circumstances, Lawson would preen. Now, he says, “What?”

“Nothing. Come on. You got your bag? Where are your keys? Let’s go.”

~*~

Clarity returns in the passenger seat of the Navigator. What’s he doing? What in thehellis he doing?

Tommy drives one-handed, gripping the top of the wheel, other hand massaging at the back of his neck in a clear display of tension.

Lawson wants to massage the stiffness out for him. Instead, he takes a look around the inside of the car and says, “This is what you drive?” He doesn’t know all the current specs on luxury SUVs, but he knows this one isnice.

Tommy checks over his shoulder and changes lanes. “I borrowed it,” he says, distracted.

“From…?”

He gestures. “Nobody. From myself. I’m usually in the back seat.”

“Ah. Being chauffeured, you mean.”

Tommy grimaces. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what? Like you’re an obscenely rich dude who doesn’t drive himself anywhere?”

“Jesus, don’t–” He sighs, and deflates, and looks small behind the wheel of this battleship car. “I miss driving,” he says, like an admission. “It helps me clear my head.”

“Yeah,” Lawson says, bowled over by a rush of fond memory, the details sepia-toned and perfect, like an old photo. “You always begged to swap with me.”

“Oh yeah.” A shocked smile lights up Tommy’s face; smooths all the creases and divots of worry and carves deep laugh lines into his cheeks. He’s lovely no matter what, but Lawson much prefers these marks of age to the frown lines. “The old Le Sabre.” He laughs, low and delighted. “That thing handled like a tank.”

“I had to put a phone book in the driver’s seat so you could see over the dash.”

“Hey, now.” Tommy cuts a disgruntled smirk his way. “I wasn’t a fucking hobbit.”

“You were pretty damn short. Still are.”

“I’m five-ten.”

“Sure, buddy.”

For a second, it feels like old times. Like they’re young, and ragging on each other, headed for McGarry road, where their tussling will take a different turn, and the things Tommy whispers to him will be sweet and pleading.

Then Tommy adjusts the rearview mirror, and checks it, and Lawson looks to the side mirror to see if they’re being followed. A cold shudder moves through him, and he berates himself for going soft.

He leans against the door, putting as much space between them as possible, and says, “Who was that tailing me?” When Tommy hesitates, he says, “Jesus Christ,seriously?”

“I know, I know,” Tommy sighs. He wipes a hand down his face, and looks haggard. Older than he is. Exhausted. “I’ll explain. Let’s get to the house, and I’ll explain everything.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“Yeah. I figured.”

22

“The house” turns out to be in Dana’s neighborhood. Or, the more affluent and prestigious west side of it. Lawson doesn’t point this out; sits silently as they roll over the brickwork bridge, through two flickering gas carriage lanterns, and into the fancier part of town.

Like Dana’s street, the houses here are old and established, the trees tall and interlaced, creating cool, shady lawns and enchanting gardens. Unlike Dana’s street, the house values start in the upper nine-hundred-thousands. Most of the houses they pass are easily over a million: sprawling Queen Anne Victorians with wraparound porches, and stately Georgian manors, all brick and black wrought iron.

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