Page 65 of College Town

Tommy’s gaze moves over them dispassionately, unreadable, and he goes to the fridge. “I’m not joining you,” he says in a low, heavy voice that, after a beat, Lawson understands is a mark of fatigue. The sort of millstone-about-the-neck fatigue that’s as much mental as physical. He knows it well. “Just grabbing a snack.”

“No, sit with us,” Natalia says, and pulls off a wheedling tone effortlessly, without being annoying. She might be a mythical creature instead of a woman, Lawson’s decided; he can’t decide if she and Dana would get along famously or abhor one another.

Tommy doesn’t answer. When he opens the fridge, the blue-white light contrasts so sharply with the warm glow of the island pendants that Lawson recoils from the brightness, even across the room. He blinks against it, and sees Tommy reach for and grasp a…Slim Fast? Yeah, that’s definitely a Slim Fast shake.

“Oh, Tom,no,” Natalia says. Says it like she’s said it before; like it’s a conversation they keep having, because Tommy doesn’t eat enough, and even if it’s not physical, Natalia’s his fiancée, and she’s the one who harps on his eating habits. Probably his sleeping habits, too. She’s the one who straightens his tie and smooths his lapels and takes a lint roller to his shoulders. It’s far too easy to envision her tidying his hair, and leaning in to kiss his cheek.

Why stop at cheek, though? If Lawson’s going to let his imagination get the best of him, why not go whole hog and picture them making out like teenagers? Wet, slick lips, and a flick of tongue, and–

“Lawson.” He shakes off his horror-show of a reverie at the sound of Natalia saying his name. She’s looking at him in an obvious play for support. “Tell him.” She tilts her head toward Tommy, who’s got his Slim Fast clutched to his chest and is beating a hasty retreat for the door. “Tell him he needs to eat real food and not his chocolate water.”

Chocolate water. He’ll have to remember that.

But as for Tommy…He could tell Natalia that no one he’s ever met has been able to sway Tommy if he was set on something. That he used to listen to his teachers only because he didn’t want to deal with the hassle of detention, but that when it came to Lawson, he was mule-stubborn, heels perpetually dug in and chin permanently jutted in defiance. Each time they crossed a new physical barrier in their relationship, Tommy was the one to initiate, and Lawson was along for the ride.

He doesn’t say that, though, because just as he knows Tommy’s stubbornness, he knows how to manipulate that stubbornness. Or he used to, anyway.

He takes a gamble – for the fun of it, he rationalizes. Not because he cares; Tommy can drink all the chocolate water he wants.

He slumps over on one elbow, shrugs theatrically, and puts a bored lilt on his voice. “Nah, it’s useless, Nat. He’s always eaten like a bird.” That’s not true; teen Tommy ate like a vacuum cleaner and Lawson has no idea where he put it all, because it certainly didn’t go toward his height. “He didn’t want to ruin his delicate little physique.” That’s a low blow – ha! – and Lawson’s not proud of it, didn’t even plan it. But his anger keeps spiking, making him cruel, shielding his fathomless hurt.

Natalia covers her mouth with her hand, but her eyes say she’s smiling.

Tommy reaches the threshold, pivots on his heel, and stalks up to the far side of the island. His jaw’s clenched, and the finger he aims at Lawson stabs through the air with knifelike intensity. His eyes burn, two black coals in a face gone tight with an anger hotter and brighter and more volatile than Lawson’s own. “Donot,” he grits out, “crack jokes about myphysique.”

“Joke?” Lawson feigns surprise. Presses a hand to his own chest.Who, me?“Why would I joke about it? It’s always been my favorite thing about you.”

Tommy’s eyes throw sparks. “Fuck you.”

Natalia gasps, and it sounds delighted.

“You,” Tommy continues, stabbing the air some more with his finger; it trembles he’s so angry, vibrating with emotion, “might be some sloppy bigfoot motherfucker who can look however he wants slinging coffee to college kids, but some of us have reputations to uphold. Some of us–” He catches himself. His eyes bug, and his expression falls comically fast into one of dismay. Of horror. He takes a half-step back.

Lawson forces his mouth into a semblance of a smile. “Gotcha,” he says, without satisfaction. There’s a certain triumph in being proven right, in still knowing how to push his buttons, but it feels bad. Sits sour in his stomach.

“You…” Tommy starts, and then presses his lips tight together, shakes his head. Turns to go. He looks defeated, and that feels bad, too. Lawson always loved getting under his skin, but only as a means to rile him, to get him shrieking with laughter, and then pouncing on him. He’s never wanted to diminish him. He looks very small, now, as he shuffles toward the door.

“Wait!” Natalia calls, and stands before Lawson can scrape up the courage to do the same. “Wait, wait, Tom, no, wait.” She goes around the island to him, and Lawson has the bizarre comfort of watching Tommy go tense all over, shoulders lifting as though bracing against her approach. He doesn’t want her to touch him, that’s clear, and Natalia knows it; hovers her hands over him without making contact and says, “Please, Tom. You look very tired. Sit down and have something to eat. I’ll make you a cup of coffee, just the way you like.”

Tommy hesitates, a frozen, tense statue.

Natalia smiles at him. “Lawson will be nice now, won’t you, Lawson?”

“Yeah,” Lawson says, weakly.

Tommy stays standing, but he wavers, weight shifting from foot to foot.

“Come, come.” Natalia shoos him, and it actually works.

Slowly, Tommy turns, and moves to a stool. The island has seating on two sides, perpendicular, and so Tommy takes the farthest stool, which puts him catty-corner to Lawson. Too far away to touch.

Lawson can’t blame him.

Natalia sets about fixing a plate at the far counter, and twists, just before she pops a coffee pod into the machine, to show it to Lawson from behind Tommy’s back. After a beat, he sees that it’s decaf coffee. Natalia winks and turns to slot it into place.

Lawson looks at Tommy.

He’s still wearing the fitted, black slacks from earlier, the ones that do incredible things for his ass and thighs – hurt, upset, angry or not, Lawson still has eyes, okay? – but they’re crumpled and wrinkled, now. He’s lost his shoes since Lawson saw him last, moved silently into the kitchen earlier on his gold-toed black socks. He’s traded his black button-up for a ratty old burgundy sweater, the hem and sleeves trailing tattered strings, the neck stretched out so the straps of his white undershirt show. He’s raked his hands through his hair, more than a few times going by the unruly twists of hair standing on top of his head and falling down onto his forehead; it’s longer than Lawson guessed earlier, so tightly tamed by gel before that it was hard to tell. Lawson sees a hint of the curls he remembers from boyhood and his chest aches.

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