Page 37 of A Cure for Recovery

Tommy’s eyes sting. “Okay. Yeah, okay, come here.” He blinks hard, and reaches for him.

Lawson pushes back in, slow enough to make Tommy arch and claw at his shoulders, and then curves over him. He cups Tommy’s face in one big hand and kisses him as his hips start to move, and all of it is molasses-slow, and sweet, andso good, and Tommy feels worshipped. Sheltered beneath Lawson, as he kisses him, and breathes in short little bursts that sound like he’s…

A warm, wet droplet strikes Tommy’s cheek, and he realizes, with a surge of distress, that Lawson is crying.

He touches his jaw, and parts their lips. “Hey, hey.” He doesn’t ask what’s wrong, because his own eyes are damp, and nothing’s wrong anyway. It’s overwhelming: getting to be here together like this, after everything. “It’s okay.”

Lawson draws in a shuddering breath, and presses his hand flat over the scars on Tommy’s stomach. “I love you.”

Tommy knows that, but Lawson blinks tears out of eyes gone serious, and imploring, and Tommy wonders if either of them is ever going to get to a place where they stop trying so hard to convey what those three words really mean.

He reaches to tuck a sweat-damp lock of gold hair behind Lawson’s ear. “I love you, too.”

Lawson’s face crumples with emotion, and he leans down to kiss him again, makes love to him, and after, when Tommy can’t walk, carries him to the bathroom so they can take a bath together. By the time the water’s gone tepid, Tommy can stand on his own, and Lawson smiles like it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

10

They fall asleep warm, and drowsy, and content, Tommy happily little-spooning inside the strong curve of Lawson’s arm. It’s a peace that’s in short supply by ten the next morning, as Lawson paces the room and tries not to hyperventilate.

Tommy’s still in his pajamas, disguising his own nerves with usefulness; he’s taking Lawson’s sport coat out of its garment bag and checking for wrinkles. “Have you brushed your teeth?” he asks.

Lawson hits the window, turns, and rakes his hands through his shower-damp hair again. Tommy’s not sure if he should bother trying to gel it for him; if he keeps pawing at it once the product hardens, they’ll have a Cameron Diaz inThere’s Something About Marysituation on their hands.

“Yeah,” Lawson says, distracted, then stops in the middle of the floor and frowns. “No. Maybe? I dunno.” He heads for the bathroom and a moment later the tap cuts on.

The blazer looks fine, so Tommy hangs it off the back of the desk chair. The shirt and pants are already laid out on the bed. Tommy picked the outfit himself, and texted a pic of it to Dana the day before they left, not expecting a response, really. But a half-hour later, she texted back a thumbs-up andtake the blue jacket, which he did. The two of them still haven’t had a proper conversation, but he’s taking that returned text as a step in the right direction.

Tommy sets out Lawson’s belt, then, water still running in the bathroom, moves to Lawson’s briefcase where it rests on the TV table. It was a Christmas gift from Dana and Leo: a smart fold-top, brown leather bag with a long shoulder strap in addition to its handle, soft-sided and with plenty of inner pockets for pens, notebooks, and flash drives. Chic, and modern, and very Dana-approved, Lawson looks like a laid-back professor when he carries it, the sort of teacher whose class students want to take, and who buys the first round at the bar once office hours are over. Inside, he double checks Lawson has what he needs; more than he could possibly need, really, but better safe than sorry. Laptop, fresh spiral notebook, three pens, business cards (that Tommy mocked up and ordered, despite Lawson’s protests that “I haven’t done anything worthy of a business card, dude”), and multiple copies of his manuscript: three copies of the first five pages, and then first ten pages respectively, and two copies of the whole thing, spiral bound at Staples.

Lawson comes out of the bathroom wearing socks, underwear, and a white-t-shirt, scrubbing his face with a hand towel. He pulls the towel down as he approaches the bed, and groans. “Oh man, I’m gonna hurl.”

“Do not hurl.” Tommy points to the clothes on top of the coverlet. “One thing at a time. Get dressed.”

Lawson sets the towel on the nightstand, and does so.

Tommy moves the briefcase over by the door, collects the towel, and takes it to the bathroom.

At home, Lawson’s fastidious in a way that Tommy knows – based on past experience and the way Lawson sometimes snatches up a dropped sock with a guilty look like he’s about to get in trouble – isn’t natural habit, but an attempt at pleasing Tommy. They’ve had enough tearful conversations by this point that Tommy thinks that Lawson worries Tommy might pack his shit and leave if Lawson leaves toothpaste flecks on the mirror, and that hurts his heart in ways he still can’t clearly define.

He's not been meticulous this morning: towel on the floor, water all over the counter, splashed on the mirror. Faucet only most of the way off in the shower so dropletsplink, plink, plinkdown onto the tile.

Tommy smiles to himself, because this is what he expected when they moved in together. And maybe this is all because Lawson’s freaking out about his meeting with Keith, but maybe, Tommy thinks, as he scoops up the towel, and shuts off the water, and starts wiping up the counter, Lawson’s feeling surer than he did about Tommy’s permanence in his life. He hopes so, anyway.

When he walks back out into the room, Lawson’s dressed save for his blazer, shirt tucked sharply into his waistband in a way that makes him look extra Dorito-shaped, and he’s popping his knuckles in an almost manic way as he mutters under his breath, like he’s practicing.

“…summer book club potential, more like upmarket fiction, and it…Oh.” He pulls up short when Tommy grips him by the shoulders and turns him. “Hi. What?”

“Sit down.” Tommy pushes him toward the desk chair. “Your hair’s a disaster.”

“Oh.” He pats at it absently with one hand while he folds down into the chair, and then makes a face. “I washed it.”

“Yeah, and then fiddled with it. Let me fix it.”

Air drying has lent it such volume that Tommy decides to smooth the flyaways and twist the waves into some semblance of shape rather than slick it all back, which has never been a good look on Lawson anyway.

“I look like a poodle,” Lawson declares, afterward, but he’s grinning. “Or like one of the Brat Pack.”

“It looks good,” Tommy says, capping the gel. “You ready?”

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