Page 21 of A Cure for Recovery

Theotherthing is, he hasn’t seen Lawson smoke since they got married, so tonight he’s fucked up even worse than he thought.

He’s still angry, though. Frustrated. Upset. All of the above.

He slow-walks his way up to the car, and Lawson sucks down the last of his cigarette before flicking it away and finally turning to regard him. There’s enough moonlight to see his half-lidded, disinterested gaze, and to be stung and prickly about it.

Lawson stands without speaking, cracks his back with his arms overhead, and moves for the driver side door.

Tommy climbs awkwardly into his own side, struggling thanks to how close the neighboring car is parked to them.

Lawson doesn’t offer to help.

6

They don’t say anything when they get home, but Lisa, dressed for bed in robe and slippers, making a cup of tea in the kitchen, peers at them with concern when they come through the back door. “Everything okay? You’re back early.”

“Yep.” Lawson pops the P and leans in to kiss her cheek on his way to the fridge. “Dad get to bed okay?”

“Yes. Nancy just left.” Lawson actually sounds pretty normal, but she doesn’t seem convinced, brows beetling as she turns her worried gaze on Tommy. “Feeling okay, sweetie?”

He forces a smile that only deepens her frown. “Yeah, I’m fine. Dana and Leo had to beg off. We rescheduled.”

At the fridge, Lawson turns, sandwich makings loaded in his arms, and sends him a derisive eyebrow lift from behind Lisa’s back.Asshole.

Shithead, Tommy thinks back, and thumps out of the room. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

He stands under the hot water a long time, letting it beat the tension out of his back and shoulders. It doesn’t improve his mood, though. When he swipes a hand through the condensation on the mirror afterward, he looks tired, and sullen, and, yeah, like an asshole, hair slicked back with water and deep frown lines pressed into his face.

His gaze trails downward, and those frown lines deepen. He’s still got some definition in his chest and arms, but his sucked-in, flat six pack has gone soft and convex after more than half a year of recovery and a distinct lack of sit-ups. His scars have faded some since the bandages first came off, but they’ve turned bright pink under the hot water, like two giant cigarette burns just above his bellybutton.

He touches them, and the skin there is as thick and numb as it ever was, but he imagines his insides shrink away from the pressure of his finger; that the damaged nerves shrivel and wither as he reaches for them.

When he gets to the bedroom, he finds Lawson standing by the bed, barefoot and bare chested, still in his jeans, but with his belt unfastened. He has a t-shirt and pair of boxers slung over his shoulder, and is in the process of setting a glass of water and a plate down on the nightstand. It’s a sandwich; Tommy sees the curled edges of lettuce, and knows it will be turkey, cheese, tomatoes, and the spicy, whole grain mustard he likes.

“Eat that,” Lawson says, as he steps around him, giving him a wide berth. “Drink the water.” There’s a small bottle of ibuprofen beside the glass.

The shower – the self-examination afterward – killed what was left of his anger. Now he’s just cold, and miserable, and full of a nauseating kind of regret that he can’t put into words at the moment.

He nods, and Lawson heads for the bathroom.

Tommy dresses, and hangs his cane up. Levers himself into bed, leaning back against the headboard, and pulls the plate into his lap. The sandwich is delicious – it’s a simple thing, not rocket science, not even cooking, but he swears Lawson makes the best sandwiches – and drinks his water, takes his pills.

He's in the middle of a mystery novel – very old-fashioned and gumshoe – and picks it up. Reads a few pages, not really absorbing the words. When he hears the grandfather clock in the hall chime the hour, he has the lurching realization that Lawson isn’t coming to bed.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he mutters to himself.

He snatches up his phone and starts to fire off a text:where are u??

But then he hears the stairs creak, and he can envision Lawson’s long frame crammed onto the couch. The knitted throw from the back pulled over him. The TV reflecting blue off his glasses as he falls asleep to old sitcom reruns.

He doesn’t text. “Fuck you,” he hisses to himself, flopping down onto the pillow –Lawson’spillow. “Fucking baby.”

Says the man who got drunk off two-and-a-half beers and pitched a fit in a crowded bar.

Tommy lies in the dark and presses his hands over his face and hates himself. He debates texting Leo. Or Dana. But what good is another apology? He squeezed her hand and told her he was sorry, and the very next day he acted like a total bastard for no reason.

Lawson’s words chase around and around his brain.“Is this about you wanting it for me? Or is this because you’re sick of living in my old childhood bedroom and think a fat advance could go a long way toward living like you did as Tom Cattaneo?”

Isthat the issue here? Is a part of his frustration rooted in something as meaningless as lifestyle?

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