8

Tommy doesn't think he's missed Manhattan until he's walking arm-in-arm down the sidewalk with Lawson, and then he's struck by a sudden, swift nostalgia.

He allows himself a minute, as Lawson points out a guy across the street wearing a truly monstrous hat, to reflect on it. To turn the feeling over in his mind.

He hasn't missed New York the way he missed Eastman for twenty years. His heart was in Eastman, the future he wanted so badly it made his teeth ache from gritting them against the urge to abandon everything he'd built in the city and just leave. Run home.

He spent so much time wishing he was elsewhere, and never stopped to consider that New York – parts of it – had wormed its way into his heart and built up a tolerance that became affection. He likes the convenience of walking everywhere; bodegas, and bars, and coffeeshops, and secondhand bookshops where he thumbed through yellowed pages and tried to select books that Lawson would like to read for himself, feeling a kinship in that small, distant act. He hates the subway, but he likes being up on the street, the bustle of it, even, and the convenience of hailing a cab on a whim, rather than fiddling with an app and waiting for one of Eastman's two Uber drivers to get to him. As Tom Cattaneo, he was spoiled for choice when it came to restaurants, and one-hour delivery.

But everything he finds exhilarating in this moment grated on him by the time he left. The hot stink of sunbaked garbage; people pissing on street corners; the rats and the roaches and the sharp pops of gunshots in the night.

He doesn't want to be back here, living in a multi-million dollar penthouse, miserable, pining, lying every sentence. But he's glad to be here now, cane folded and held loosely in his free hand, unnecessary as he lets Lawson's strong arm tow him down the sidewalk.

It"s muggy, overcast, the air thick with car exhaust and the noise of too many people; it's really to warm to be arm-in-arm like this, their sweaty skin gluing them together in the crooks of their elbows, but Tommy wouldn't let go for the world.

"…warned me not to get listeria from a street cart hot dog," Lawson says, as he turns to look down at Tommy, and then smiles, crooked and curious. "What?"

"What?" Tommy parrots. He wasn't listening, and now he's been busted.

But Lawson doesn't comment on that. Instead, he gestures with a finger and says, "Your face."

He had a latte when they stopped for coffee on the way, and it was exceptionally foamy. Shit. He dashes at his upper lip with the back of the hand holding his cane. "What about it?"

Lawson's smile softens. "I dunno. You just look happy."

"Oh." He searches Lawson's face in turn, worried that Lawson thinks he's happy to be in New York, that maybe he misses it too much, or wishes he lived here still. But Lawson only looks fond. "I am." He tightens his arm, sticky skin catching, tugging at arm hair in an unpleasant way that neither of them pull away from. "I'm happy we're here together."

It's the right thing to say. Lawson's smile widens, eyes scrunching in delight. "God, that was so sappy."

"I know, right? I'm gonna be sick," Tommy says, smiling so wide his face hurts, and turns his attention back to the sidewalk just in time for them to avoid crashing into a trio of women looking at their phones instead of where they're going.

Five days ago, they hired Maria, a young, perky home healthcare worker who they both worried was too petite to manage a patient Bill's size, but who quickly proved that she had a few tricks up her sleeve, both with a deceptive upper body strength, and a knack for using leverage and angles to the best advantage. Bill is thin these days, his legs sticklike and skeletal, but he's still six-two. Maria, though, handled him expertly and kindly, and quickly won Lisa over.

Things at home covered, Lawson cashed in his unused sick days at Coffee Town – Kyle was a douche about it, but Tommy hopes, if this weekend goes well, Kyle won't be a worry anymore for long – they packed, and, this morning, left Eastman for New York. They checked into their hotel, a too-expensive splurge in a nod toward the honeymoon portion of the trip, freshened up, and are now on their way to meet Noah and Natalia for lunch at La Historia, Natalia's treat, she said insistently.

"What sort of restaurant is this?" Lawson asks, as they spy its exterior: smoked windows, and a sleek black fa?ade with gold embossed letters over the recessed doors.

"Knowing Nat, something pretentious with an illegible menu."

Lawson snorts, and opens the door – rich dark wood with gold pulls – and shuffles them sideways so they can walk in together without letting go of each other. For the first time in a long time, Tommy's not worried if it makes him look slow and weak; relaxed, not fretting over the image he presents, his legs are working well, and if anything, he thinks they look like two clingy fools in love, rather than an invalid and a caretaker.

The interior is dim – the kind of dim that forces them to a halt while white flowers burst across their field of vision, and it takes a good thirty seconds of blinking for their eyes to adjust. The first detail Tommy notes is the white-veined, black marble floor, and he sighs. Yes, it's pretentious.

Lawson leans down to stage-whisper, "I don't think we're dressed for this place."

"Decidedly not."

But a hostess in a chic black dress steps out from behind her station to greet them and ask if they have a reservation. "Katz? Yes, right this way."

She leads them through a dining room done all in blacks and slate grays, bright gold accents on the chandeliers and wall sconces. If not for waiters gliding through with trays, and the scent of heavily-spiced food, Tommy would think they were in a speakeasy or a ritzy hotel lobby. Every single diner they pass is dressed more formally than them.

And, to his pleasant surprise, he finds he doesn't care. He spent so many years as Tom Cattaneo, dripping finery, and he was miserable as hell. So what if he's wearing jeans and a plaid shirt now? He's hanging off the arm of the only boy he's ever loved.

Noah and Nat are at a booth near the back, beneath an Edison bulb chandelier that throws pale discs of light across the table and makes Nat – red dress, red lipstick – look like a movie star, or European royalty. She lifts a hand to wave at them when they're within sight. Her left hand; Tommy notes she isn't wearing a ring, and looks toward his brother, who's already wearing a sheepish half-smile.

Coward, Tommy thinks, and then smiles when Nat gets up from the table to hug them both and smother them in Chanel No. 5.

Tommy slides into their side of the booth first, so he's across from Noah, and lifts his brows. "Hey," he says, and levers an accusation into it.

Noah rolls his eyes. "Hey."

Lawson and Nat settle in across from each other and Nat says, "Oh, boys, you look wonderful!"

Lawson plucks at the front of his vintage Speed Racer t-shirt and says, "Yeah. Ready for tea with the queen."

Noah looks at Tommy and says, "You gained a little weight," and Tommy bristles.

"Hey, it's hard to–"

"No, it looks good," Noah assures. "You were too thin before."

"Yes," Nat says with an air of finality. "You look healthy, now."

In truth, he misses his sharp muscle definition, but decides not to waste time fretting over it now. Instead, he takes a closer look at Noah: his smart suit, and his cufflinks, and his pink-and-purple striped tie. "Is this how you dress at Narcotics every day?"

As he watches, Noah's face colors. "Um…"

"You haven't heard?" Nat says, leaning forward, face lit up with excitement. "Noah made captain!"

"Captain?" Tommy asks, stunned. "When?"

"Two weeks ago." Then her expression sharpens, and she turns to Noah. "You didn't tell him? You didn't tell your brother?"

"I'm telling him now."

"You're telling him now, and you're blushing. Noah," she says, chidingly. "How could you not tell your brother?"

Noah's blush deepens, and Tommy shares a quick glance with Lawson.

Did you know?

No.

The truth is, though Noah and Tommy do talk – on the phone, via text, and over Skype sometimes – they don't talk about anything of substance. Baseball scores, and Frank, and their mother, and usually Tommy finds an opening to needle Noah about proposing to Natalia, and Noah says yeah, yeah, I know, I'm getting there. But all Noah ever asks about his recovery is You good? You doing okay? And Tommy says, Yeah, even if he isn't okay. In turn, he says, How's Narcotics, and Noah says, You know. Lots of drugs in the city. And that's that.

At no point has Noah mentioned he took the captain test, nor that he was being considered for the position.

Tommy isn't hurt, exactly. But he feels like he got slapped across the face.

Noah meets his gaze, and then ducks his head, like he knows.

Thankfully, Nat is very good at blasting through tension with weaponized cheerfulness. "Lawson," she says, hands slapping down on the table. "Tell me all about your meeting with the book man."

Lawson chuckles. "The literary agent?"

"Yes!"

"Well, obviously, nothing's for certain yet," Lawson says, and launches, at her prompting, into an explanation of the query and book-shopping process. He lays down a lot of qualifiers – it probably won't happen; not getting my hopes up; etc. – but Tommy notes that he sounds less nervous and more excited than he has at any point since Leo first suggested the meeting.

A waiter comes by for their drink order in the middle of the conversation. Lawson and Tommy both ask for water, but Nata orders a bottle of white wine for the table and four glasses. "It's your honeymoon," she says with a wink. "Have fun."

"I'm sure you'll be published," Nat says with confidence, lifting her glass, once it's arrived, in a suggestion of a toast.

Lawson chuckles. "You've never read a single word I've written."

"But I'm still sure," she says, with a regal toss of her head. "To Lawson, and the millions of dollars he's going to make."

Lawson rolls his eyes, but clinks his glass with hers, and then with Noah's and Tommy's when they join. Lawson catches Tommy's gaze and shakes his head. This chick, his look says. Crazy.

I hope she's not crazy, Tommy thinks, fiercely, while he smiles back. I hope you get everything you've ever wanted.

It turns out La Historia is a Spanish restaurant. "As in Spain, babe," Tommy tells Lawson, leaning into his shoulder. "There's no tacos."

"I know that." But he pouts anyway, and Tommy laughs, and sips his wine, and is pleasantly warm inside, head to toes.

Tommy orders steak, and Lawson gets the paella, despite the waiter giving him a dubious look and saying it's meant to feed four.

After they've ordered, Nat tops up their glasses and turns her laser-focus on Tommy. Uh oh, he thinks, and the wine makes him bold enough not to shrink down into his seat beneath the vivid blue of her eyes.

"Tom," she says, "you weren't using your cane when you came in."

Tommy thinks, aw shit. And then Lawson stiffens beside him, a judder of tension where their biceps are pressed together, and then he thinks aw shit for a different reason.

He reaches with his other hand to squeeze Lawson's forearm and said, "Have you seen this guy's arms? Nobody needs a cane holding onto one of those."

Lawson barks a startled laugh.

"Oh jeez," Noah says, grimacing. "Marriage made you gross."

And they don't talk about Tommy's legs, or his cane, or anything of the sort for the rest of the meal.