Page 17 of A Cure for Recovery

A few minutes later, Lawson asks, “Can you walk?”

Tommy answers honestly, scoured clean by what they’ve done, body humming, his weak, numb legs the last thing on his mind. “No. I really can’t.”

He loops grateful, trembling arms around Lawson’s neck when he scoops him up, and lets himself be happily carried to the shower.

5

The next night, they meet Dana and Leo at Flanagan’s for drinks, greasy burgers, and a vicious round of pool. They’ve been making a regular thing of it, and other patrons are starting to gather and watch on Fridays.

Tommy started the day sleeping fifteen minutes past his alarm, and woke groggy, sore as hell, shaky – and deeply satisfied. He didn’t protest Tommy’s help getting up; instead, he hummed a thank you and kissed his shoulder and swayed into his sturdy side, delighting in the way it left Lawson beaming. He stepped into his hands-free shoes once he was dressed, and sat at the kitchen table, cane beside him, unprotesting when Lisa packed him a lunch.

She looked between them, beaming, eyes sparkling, and said, “You boys sleep well?”

Tommy blushed, but didn’t shrivel down into his collar. Nodded, instead.

Lawson said, “Sowell.” And winked at him.

Work went by quickly, and he wasn’t even bothered by cantankerous old Mr. Baumgartner who called at least once a week demanding his rate be lowered.

When Lawson picked him up at five, he took one look at his face and said, “Oh my God, I’ve created a monster. A happy, dick-drunk monster.”

“Fuck you,” Tommy said, cheerfully, as he buckled his seatbelt.

“No, fuckyou. If you want.”

“Later. After drinks. You should wear that jacket you got for Christmas.”

Lawson laughed. “It’s, like, seventy degrees out.”

“Still. You should wear it.”

“Fine. Don’t have to tell me twice.”

“But I just did. Have to tell you twice.”

“Yeah, because I love listening to your dulcet, dictatorial tones and shit.”

Tommy snorted. “And shit.”

The jacket in question is a lightweight, dark denim with a brown corduroy collar that should have looked western and ridiculous, but somehow works with Lawson’s build and wardrobe, and which makes Tommy’s mouth water besides. Tommy rubs the pads of his fingers down the seam on the inside of the arm where it rests on the console, and thinks – fantasizes – about later.

For once, they’re the first ones to arrive. Lawson hangs his jacket off a high-backed stool at their favorite table and Tommy snags the one empty pool table beside it. They’ve already got a pitcher of beer and two baskets of cheesy tots when Dana arrives, alone, dressed down in jeans and sneakers.

“Hi, boys.” She kisses them each on the cheek. “Leo’s running late. Term paper emergency, apparently.” She takes a sizable slug from the glass Lawson pours for her and grabs a pool cue. “C’mon, Thomas. Warm-up round.”

“What about me?” Lawson mock-pouts, swiveling his stool so he can watch them, beer held between the fingertips of both hands like a toddler with a sippy cup.

“You’ll only slow us down, amateur,” Dana says, lightly, and Tommy snickers at Lawson’s overdramatic gasp.

Dana’s already beaten him once, and he’s already two-and-a-half beers in when Leo finally shows up, and Tommy’s feeling pleasantly buzzed, and moving around the table with ease and a lack of self-consciousness. When he spots Leo arriving at the table, greeting Lawson – who is definitely eating all their cheesy tots, the jerk – Tommy aims the chalky end of his cue at him and says, darkly, “I need to talk to you.”

Dana and Lawson share a look, and then crack up.

Leo’s eyes bug, and he pauses, jacket halfway off, to say, uncertainly, “Hi, Tommy.”

It’s the first time since they met that Tommy hasn’t greeted him with a handshake and exchange of pleasantries, and Lawson’s enjoying it way too much.

“Oh my God,” he snorts into his beer. “Leo, your face.”

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