Page 59 of College Town

Lawson’s fingertips and toes are tingling, full of apathy. But his traitorous heart tries to turn and throb and bleeds. It’s an uncomfortable battle of sensations, and it’s making it harder and harder to fight the stress-exhaustion. He wants to sleep for a week.

He asks, “Why did you tell me the truth?” He knows it’s the truth; it’s too stupid and unbelievable to be something Tommy carefully concocted.

There’s the rush of a quick, unsteady breath, and Tommy’s voice goes wobbly when he says, “I’ve done a lot of awful shit in my life. Buy lying to you feels the worst.”

Jesus, Lawson thinks.Cut me to the quick. Don’t hesitate. Robin Hood himself couldn’t have put an arrow through his chest with such precise and painful deftness. He takes a very slow, very shallow breath in the hopes that it won’t rattle too audibly. Hopes that Tommy can’t hear his pulse beat-beat-beating just beneath his skin.

When he can, he says, “You’re not gonna let me walk out of here, are you?”

“Ican’t,” Tommy says, with true regret. “You know that.”

All Lawson knows is that, if given the choice, he’d take the concrete shoes.

23

Tommy shows him to a bedroom. It boasts a four-poster bed, and a massive old seafarer trunk, and a dresser and high boy that look like something from Versailles. There’s an ensuite bath floored and walled in dark green marble. The curtains look like they cost more than everything Lawson owns put together, and the window, and its cute little cushioned seat, overlooks yet another enchanting view of the garden.

“There’s new soap, shampoo, toothbrushes, and a robe in the closet in the bathroom,” Tommy tells him. “I’ll see if Noah has something you can wear. Dinner’s at eight.” Then, with a last hangdog look, he retreats out into the hall.

When the door closes, Lawson listens to Tommy’s quiet footfalls move down the runner, and then flops face-first onto the bed and lets the plush duvet swallow up his scream of frustration. As cliché as it is, it helps. He was a big kid with big feelings, and that didn’t change just because he grew up. After, hot-faced, but calmer, he rolls over onto his back and stares up the ceiling.

Rather than the popcorn texture and water stains of home, this ceiling is smooth, creamy plaster. There’s a chandelier above the bed, rather than a fan, and an ornate ceiling medallion circles its mount.

Could this place be more pretentious?

He decides to take a stab at logic.

Logically, he can’t leave. He doesn’t really think anyone will shoot him, or break his kneecaps, or chain him up in this place’s no doubt pretentious basement, but Tommy said he had to stay, and he’s not keen to figure out what will happen to him if he tries to make a break for it. He could walk to Dana’s from here, easily, but he thinks some of those thick-necked guys with ear pieces and guns out in the hall could walk a little faster and wouldn’t be opposed to football tackling him.

But he can’t stay; he has too many outside responsibilities. His job, for one, which he hates, and which won’t miss him; give Kyle a week and he’ll have him replaced with someone who doesn’t make faces behind his back and eat more than his allotted one free cookie a day.

But the most pressing obligation is home. Is Dad, and Mom. Mom does her best, works harder than anyone should have to, but she’s not strong enough to get Dad from chair, to shower, and back to chair. She can help him into bed, after a fashion, but it puts a strain on her back, and then she grimaces all the next day, the pain turning her pale and drawn.

It's thought of his parents that puts a lump in his throat. That has him digging his phone out of his pocket. Tommy said he couldn’t leave, but didn’t strip-search him or forbid him from making a call.

The screen informs him it’s ten ‘til five. Surprising, since it feels as though Tommy spent hours and hours telling his tale. He opens up his recent call log, and hits Dana’s name.

“Hey there,” she greets chirpily on the second ring. “I just got off the phone with Leo. We were thinking about grabbing a pizza. Wanna come?”

He envisions Dino’s, their favorite pizza place. Its red-and-yellow glass lamps, and its red vinyl booths, and the perfect, thin, crispy crust on their margherita pies. Thinks of his dear friend, and her good-guy, good-sport boyfriend, always making Lawson feel valued and included.

“I can’t,” he says, and wipes a hand down his face. His cheeks hurt from all the tension he’s been carrying. It feels like his ride with Frank was a year ago, rather than just this morning.

Dana immediately picks up on the note of wrongness in his voice. “Hey.” Her voice softens and tightens all at once, a feat of gentle worry. “What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. Just being held hostage in a mansion.”

“What?”

He lets out a deep, whistling breath. “It’s a long and complicated story, and not mine to tell. But, the short version is that…” He stalls out. It reallyisn’this story to tell. He’s pissed at Tommy, sure, at Tommy’s whole life trajectory, but Tommy told him all about it in confidence, not explicit, but implied confidence. He trusted Lawson with secrets of the sort that could land him in jail.

Lawson isn’t sure he owes him patience or civility (he does, but he’s too angry right now to admit that, even to himself) but he can’t just go spreading his illegal business around, not even to Dana.

Plus, there’s the little detail of not being able to leave; if he tells Dana everything, she’ll be laid out on the bed beside him.

“Lawson,” he prompts.

“I’m with Tommy. Or, well, notwithwith him. I’m at his house. His great big British-looking pile of a house. Apparently, I’ve attracted the attention of some not-so-very-nice people and now he says I can’t leave for my own safety.”

---