Off Campus (31 page)

A few hours weren't going to change anything and he was fucked up the ass, metaphorically speaking, either way. But if he could get his own emotions on lockdown, approach this in a calm and rational manner, he might be able to talk to Reese. To make him see what
Tom
needed, to get through these last two semesters. That's all.

He didn't expect it. Was pretty sure he'd be better off with the naked Green sprinting. His fingers were still buzzing with anger from hearing his name tied to the exact kind of public attention he'd been ducking for almost two years. And it hurt, to know that Reese didn't take him seriously.

He hadn't told anyone about the days before and during the trial when he was home, alone in that big empty house because his dad was on suicide watch at the jail. Except he was never really alone, not with news crews camped out on the sidewalk twenty-four seven. They weren't supposed to come on the property or block access, but Boston cops weren't hugely sympathetic to a guy who'd ripped off middle class workers.

When he drank himself stupid the day he read about an investor who'd shot himself rather than admit to his wife and family that he'd lost everything, Tom found out that they were going through his trash too.

Sure, the photo of a ripped open trash bag full of empty beer bottles that hit the local news the next day under the headline “Worthington Home Full of Booze, Drugs?”
could have been staged. But it
looked
like the trash he'd taken out early the next morning to catch the curbside pick-up, skull pounding under the hoodie he'd pulled down low.

He'd been isolated and humiliated and nothing had felt like more of a relief than the first time he realized that a month had gone by without a new item about him or his dad hitting the websites.

Not explaining all this to Reese had been a mistake. But he'd hoped for once to have something taken on faith. To have earned that kind of trust for himself that would mean Reese would stop pushing on this one last thing.

That he hadn't earned it, that Tom knew he didn't deserve it, pushed all the wrong buttons.

If he could go, hide and study or hit the trail and run, maybe he could drain some of this frustration and betrayal and pure pissed-offness, mostly at himself, that had his teeth chattering.

Exiting the building, he almost ran down Reese on the wide front steps of Perkins, losing his balance on that one loose step that wobbled under your ankle. Enough so that Reese grabbed his arm in support, even though the emotionless mask on his face spoke clearly of a newspaper editor who'd been unable, or unwilling, to let Tom break the news.

It was nothing but bad luck and poor balance. The two combining as Tom yanked free of Reese's grasp with an angry arm sweep that knocked his boyfriend back a step.

Just in time for a student with a camera the size of a small dog to snap the first of a dozen pictures of Tom as the angry young man backhanding his boyfriend on the front porch of their residence hall.

Even knowing that this had to be a coincidence—that as much as Reese might want to show him that the sky wouldn't fall if the worst happened, he would never
invite
a reporter or photographer into their life—Tom couldn't listen.

He didn't even hear what Reese said.

The roaring in his ears that drowned out everything else.

“Couldn't wait, could you?” The words were bitter on his tongue.

It was the first time he realized he'd hoped Reese would.

Wait for him.

He didn't even know he was hoping for Reese to deny it, to reassure him that he hadn't talked about Tom in an interview, until he saw guilt on his face.

“Fuck.” So. That was that.

“Tom. I'm sorry—”

He couldn't believe it. Didn't believe it. But Reese's hands raised in surrender and his stuttering apology were pretty fucking hard to misunderstand. Tom pushed past him, ignoring the photographer still clicking away. He had to get out of here. “Don't wait up.”

“Tom. It isn't about you.”

“Save it.”

It was about him.

It was always about him.

He might have forgotten for a while, let himself be tempted by Reese's belief that he deserved a normal life, but the subterranean river whispered the truth.
Not yet.
He knew it wouldn't last forever. Had hoped, apparently, that he and Reese could stick it out long enough to get him across to the other side.

Looked like they weren't going to make it.

Without thought, his weight shifted forward, pounding steps switching smoothly to a fast jog that carried him away, feet searching out the patches of bare pavement in the dirty slush to keep his feet securely under him.

All that running was good for something after all.

Cash didn't ask questions when Tom showed up at his room and asked to crash. The big man was on his way out for a “study date” with a girl he'd met in the kitchen during the party they'd hit the previous week. Steph had been giving him crap about his crush on this girl, claiming it was doomed to failure since it was driven almost entirely by Cash's appreciation of the girl's enormous rack. Tom was pretty sure Cash was only going out with this girl because it got on Steph's nerves, but his run across campus must have taken it out of him, because he was too exhausted to give Cash shit. He waved him out the door and collapsed on top of the comforter on Cash's bed.

In the quiet of the room, the buzz of his phone on vibrate was easy to hear. He fumbled for his coat pocket.

Eight missed calls. Six texts.

When the screen lit up in his hand, he didn't have to look to see who it was before he answered.

“My interview wasn't about you, Tom.”

“I know. I figured out that that guy was there to take your picture, not mine.” He was so tired his eyes ached. He pressed his head into a crumpled pillow and the heel of one hand into his left eye, then his right. “Your editor emailed me the article and I read it. He told me his guy only took my picture out of habit. They deleted it already.”

“Good. You were one sentence. Two. In a much bigger picture. And I've asked them not to use your name.”

“I figured.” He was cold now that the running had stopped. He yanked the edge of the comforter out from the crack between the bed and the wall and tried to pull it over him, managing to cover one leg. “There were a dozen calls from reporters today. Probably because my dad's hearing is Monday.”

“No wonder you've been tense. Have you talked to him?”

“Yeah, no. Not happening. But I should've known they'd be sniffing around.”

“I would never talk to one of those people.”

“I know. It felt the same to me. Even though I knew it wasn't. It was shitty timing.” He left the rest of the words unsaid. Their timing had been shitty all along.

“So what now?”

He'd been asking himself that since ending the phone call he'd made in the empty back stairwell at Cash's dorm. “That kid complained about me. I have an appointment with the dean on Monday.”

“She's not going to ask you to leave school because of that douchebag. She can't do that.” Reese's voice was firm, demanding that reality conform to his belief in its core fairness.

For someone who hadn't experienced much fairness, Tom was always surprised to be reminded how powerfully Reese believed in it. He thought it must have something to do with Reese's dad and his home, with rock solid support and a determination to do the right thing, always. He wondered if his own tendency to wobble under pressure could be put down to crappy parenting or if it was a defect in him.

“I'm trying to have faith, Reese.”

“But it's hard.”

“Yeah.”

Reese paused for a moment, like he was waiting for something more from Tom, and then sighed. “It'll work out.” He didn't sound like he believed it.

“Thanks.”

The next pause was longer.

“Are you coming back?”

His throat was tight. He needed to clear it to speak. “I don't think so.”

“Tonight?”

He couldn't answer that. And not simply because he didn't know if he'd be staying at school past ten a.m. on Monday morning.

Tom struggled to put it into words. “It's like we get to take turns, isn't it? Being angry.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're being patient with me right now, because you know I had a fucking horrible day. Because I lost my shit about the Pride article. So you need to be the one who keeps it together right now.”

Silence from Reese let him know that he was right. And this was a much bigger problem than a few paragraphs in a campus newspaper.

This was the thing that maybe couldn't be fixed.

“How mad are
you
? If it's your turn.”

“I'm not mad at you, baby.”

“Bullshit.” So tired. He rolled over on his side and curled up, phone squeezed between his head and the pillow. He closed his eyes and let Reese's voice, so calm, roll over him. Sunlight was streaming weakly in the window in Cash's room, but something about the phone and being alone made it enough like talking in the dark that he could say the scary things out loud. “You're mad at me. And you should be. All you've ever asked is for me to not be a chickenshit. To push back, even a little. And I keep letting you down.”

Reese's voice was fierce. “You think I think you're not brave? Jesus, never, Tom. Do you hear me? Never.”

“Don't believe you.”

“I'm not bullshitting you. Yes, I get mad at you. All the time. Because it's hard to be with you and I never pretended it wasn't. Being with you makes me feel like shit sometimes. But this is what grown ups do. We figure out how to get through the hard shit, even when we're mad. So if it needs to be your turn right now, then I'll deal.”

“Yeah, but what if it never gets to be your turn? It can't be my turn forever.”

“It won't be.” Reese laughed but it felt pretty hollow. “It can't be.”

“Because no one would want to stay with someone like that.”

“It's not gonna be like this forever, Tom.”

He shook his head. That was a level of faith he couldn't find, no matter how deep he dug. “I told you. I told you that I wasn't the right guy, Reese. You should have listened to me,” he said, tiredness slurring his words. God, he needed to rest. Sleep was pulling him under. “I gotta go.”

“Tom, don't you hang up on me. Tom!”

He shoved the phone under the pillow so he'd feel it when it vibrated with the calls and texts he knew Reese would send him.

He fell asleep on a buzzing pillow and counted it a comfort.

The door to Cash's room banging open what felt like thirty seconds later was barely enough to drag him into consciousness.

Cash's gasping collapse into his desk chair and the lodging of his feet six inches from Tom's face did the job, though.

“Oh yay. You're still breathing.” The big man dropped his head back and hauled air in and out of a wide open mouth.

“I'm not suicidal, for Christ's sake.” Tom tugged the comforter tighter around his shoulders.

“Well, then don't be all
I love you but I can't be with you, goodbye
on the fucking phone, Romeo. That shit'll make people worry.” He sat up straight and stared at Tom, eyes narrowing. “Not me, of course. I was like,
whatevs
, when your boy called me and told me I maybe wanna keep an eye on you. Jesus, can you get me a water or something? I'm dying.”

Tom kicked the covers off and got up to dig through his friend's mini fridge for a bottle of water. He found it behind the beer and tossed it to Cash from a crouch.

Cash caught it one-handed and cracked the seal, chugging half the bottle in one long swallow. “Ah, that's good.”

“Run all the way here?”

“Like a motherfucker.”

Tom shook his head and got back on the bed, sitting up against the wall. “I'm fine.”

Cash eyed him over the clear plastic bottle as he chugged it. When he came up for air, he said, “Dude, you are so far from fine you can't even see it anymore.”

Not arguing that one seemed the better part of valor. Tom's stomach could only tolerate so much bullshit. “I'll
be
fine. And I didn't say that stuff.”

“Which part? The
I love you
or
I can't be with you
?”

“The first one.”

Cash's eyes opened wide. “Well, why the fuck not? You guys are, like, the disgustingly perfect couple everyone hates.” At Tom's snort, Cash stuck his chin out and doubled down. “Okay, maybe not lately. But usually Steph and I can barely stand to be in the same room as you two.”

“That why you keep ending up going off alone with her?” Tom went for distraction as a defense.

“Fuck you. We're talking about your mess. Not mine.”

A less than successful strategy. It was pathetic when
Cash
could out argue him.

“My mess is over. I just need a place to crash while I figure out what's next. He doesn't need to deal with me around all the time.”

Cash shook his head and stood up to stretch. He swiped the two Xbox controllers off his dresser top and tossed one to Tom, then grabbed two beers from the fridge and passed one over. He dragged his desk chair around to face the TV and sat in it, propping his feet back on his bed. They waited through the opening credits for their saved game to load.

“You want me to give you the heads up when your boyfriend is coming over for Call of Duty?” Cash asked after a moment.

“Dude.”

“What? Have you
seen
my numbers since we started playing with him? I'm not giving that up.” He called up their saved game and settled back in his chair, glancing over at Tom. “I'm kidding. Reese is your boy, but you're
my
boy.”