Off Campus (8 page)

“What? I never—”

“Oh, please. Don't lie to me, you slut. I totally saw you give that guy a hand job under the blanket when you were ‘snuggling'.” She made air quotes and Reese stuck his tongue out at her as she laughed.

Tom spoke without thinking. “So it's not just me who gets to watch.”

Two heads turned slowly and stared at him, both with eyebrows lifted.

He flushed, face running hot with the sudden awareness of what he'd let slip. Holy shit. What the fuck should he do now?

Steph's mouth opened, which seemed to wake Reese out of his paralysis. He clapped a hand over her mouth and shoved her out the door, leaning into it with his shoulder to close it behind her.

“I'll be out in a sec.”

“You're watching him fuck—?” Her shriek echoed down the hall.

Tom winced. His neighbors heard that.

Reese shuffled back into the room, ending up next to his desk, staring at the floor. The long sleeves of his black tee hung over the first knuckles of his hands, like a little boy in his older brother's clothes. Tom didn't get it, the shy thing, since the blush on his own face made it clear who was the asshole in the room.

“Sorry.” Reese glanced up through his hair.

“No way. Your friend is nice.” Tom was at a loss. That was a lie. He could do better. “Sort of. She's looking out for you, you know? Not like Cash.”

That got a snort and an eye roll.

“Nah, it's the same thing. But still.”

“Yeah.”

He knew what Reese meant. They'd both taken to hiding away in their room even more now that the semester was truly upon them. Somehow Reese's late night boys didn't count, but the loud, room-filling personalities of Cash and Steph crowded them in their space.

“Kinda nice when it feels like no one knows how to find you.”

Tom nodded. True that.

“So maybe she can meet me next time. You know, at the library or something.”

“If you want, man. But not because of me, okay?”

“No worries. I just, you know, like it. When it's just us.”

Reese was pulling at a frayed edge on his cuff, splitting it further, but his eyes darted to Tom on his last words.

What the hell. He'd already admitted in front of a near-total stranger, and to Reese's face, that he'd been indulging in a little voyeurism, watching his roommate fuck random guys. Reese had brought three more people back to their room in the past weeks, with Tom either listening or watching bodies move in the dark each time. His sense of being complicit in Reese's weird sex habits was both a turn-on and hugely uncomfortable. The entire thing felt like a surreal dream in his waking hours. Admitting he actually liked Reese's company when awake couldn't be any more embarrassing than
that
.

“Me too.”

The kid's face flushed pink and he looked down again. Tom could see his cheeks curve from smiling, just a little.

The blast of noise from the hall when Reese left, Steph having transferred the blazing focus of her attention to whomever had stumbled upon her in the hall, was enough to make him wince. But Reese's last look back at Tom, still stretched out on the bed with a book he wasn't even pretending to read anymore, was like the slow, sensual drag of a feather across his skin. Reese waved, a hand opening and closing one time on his way out the door. Tom nodded back.

The door closed.

Chapter Seven

The first time the landline rang in their room, Tom almost jumped out of his skin. The ring was shrill and loud and an actual telephone ring. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard a phone ring, as opposed to sing out some pop song or robotic beep sequence. His own phone played the Dropkick Murphys' “I'm Shipping Up to Boston” when he got a call, which was never.

He'd heard the song while watching
The Departed
at a movie theater on the Common that he'd snuck into, feeling like a teenager, but not willing to blow fifteen dollars on a movie ticket. He'd just wanted to check out for a few hours. Sit in the dark and be taken out of himself by a story that might not have a
happy
ending, but at least had an ending period, which had all kinds of appeal to him with this brutal slog to the finish of his degree. The song had vibrated as angry background noise while Leonardo DiCaprio was processed into prison and Tom had walked out of the theater with that angry punk sound ringing in his bones, twitchy and ready to start a fight.

He'd spent the wasteful buck it had cost him to download the ringtone, only to realize days later he'd never hear it. After everything had gone to shit with his dad, after the arrest but before his suicide attempt, Tom had changed his phone number, making himself essentially invisible to his friends, if you could call them that. Most had vanished along with his pride and his money.

After he cut his electronic tether to that whole crowd, his phone had stopped ringing. Most of his calls were from dispatch at the taxi service or one of the bouncers he'd befriended in his gypsy cab hours. The only other person who called him was his father's lawyer, who kept him updated on the appeals process. But he'd told that gray, lipless man that if the attorney gave Tom's new telephone number to his dad, Tom would change it again and forget to share it with anyone. He didn't want to talk to his dad. Ever. He'd keep up to date on the details of the trials, but he was done with conversation.

If Tom could find a way to get through this last year and a half at school without talking, that would rank right up there with carving
The Thinker
as far as great ideas were concerned.

So when the phone rang, actually rang, in their room as Tom was stretched out on his bed, the loud peal jerked him right out of his doze. He was theoretically reading a text on whether microfinance effectively improved the living standards of the poor or whether it was simply another predatory lending practice that made donors feel good about their charity. Mostly, though, he was resting his eyes and wondering if he could afford to squeeze in a nap before getting to work on the paper he had to finish by Friday. That way he could revise it in his cab over the weekend and turn it in on Monday by nine a.m.

For a moment, he picked up his phone and looked at it. Reese was out, as usual, and in Tom's sleepy brain, if something was ringing, it had to be his phone. But the screen was black and the shrill ring still echoed in their small room.

Once he spotted the handset on Reese's desk, he didn't know how he'd missed it before now. It stood right on the corner by the end of Reese's bed, within easy grabbing distance.

The phone rang again. And again.

He waited for it to click over to voicemail.

Still ringing.

After two minutes, it was answer the phone or throw the damn thing across the room. Whoever was calling wasn't hanging up anytime soon.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath as he got off his bed. With his luck, Reese would stroll in as soon as he picked up the phone and he'd be caught standing there with his roommate's property in his hands, trying to explain why he hadn't left it alone.

Ring.

Ring.

Technically, this is my phone line too.

He hovered over the phone for a moment, thinking maybe it would magically stop ringing as he reached for it. The call couldn't be for him. He didn't even know their extension. Certainly hadn't given it out to anyone. He held his hand an inch over the black plastic handset standing upright in its base.

Ring.

No such luck.

He picked up the phone and hit Talk.

“Hello?”

“Hello? Who's this?”

“Tom.”

“Tom.” A man's voice, repeating his name as if testing to see if he liked the taste of it but didn't expect to. “You'd be Reese's last-minute roommate, then?”

Obviously someone who knew Reese well, since the kid didn't seem any more likely to share details of his private life than Tom was.

“That's right.”

“This is Mr. Anders, Tom. Reese's dad.”

Tom had grown up talking to adults, friends' parents, his father's business contacts. It took some effort, but he could dredge up a memory of how to charm strangers into liking him. This was a good time to dig deep.

“Hello, sir. It's nice to meet you.”

Reese's dad harrumphed. “We'll see. Reese is at class now, isn't he?”

“Yes, sir.”

If his dad knew Reese's schedule down to the hour, then why was he calling when his son was sure to be out?

“I wanted to talk to you, son. Introduce myself.”

Ah ha.

“I'll be coming up to campus one of these weekends. I'm looking forward to meeting you. Happy to take you boys out to dinner when I'm there, get to know you. I check in on Reese pretty regularly.”

If you get my meaning, punk.

The purpose of the call wasn't hard to figure out. Reese's dad kept his voice light and friendly, but he was warning Tom in words about as subtle as a javelin to the skull that he'd be keeping an eye on Tom and his boy and any irregularities would be dealt with immediately.

Tom sighed and rubbed his free hand over his scratchy, dry eyes.

This was nothing new. Another person who'd made his mind up about Tom without ever speaking to him. He was months and miles past giving a rat's ass about being disliked.

“Sounds great, sir. I'm not here most weekends, though.”

Mr. Anders was ever cheerful. And vaguely threatening.

“Then I'll have to come up on a Thursday. Know that's like a Friday night for you party kids.”

“Sure.” He couldn't remember the last time he went to a party, never mind what day of the week it had been. The idea of standing in a room full of people whose barely there verbal filters had been washed away by a river of cheap beer made him want to vomit. “I hope I get a chance to meet you. Did you want me to leave a message for Reese?”

Since you and I both know there's apparently no voicemail on this phone. And if you actually wanted to reach him, you'd have called his cell.

“Nope. I'll call him later tonight.”
When I'll tell him that if his new roommate so much as farts in his general direction, he should call me and I'll come up to campus and kick your ass.
Subtext, not a mystery. “Nice talking to you, Tom.”

“You too, sir. Bye.”

He hung up and stood at Reese's desk with the phone dangling in his hand. Angled tightly into the edge of Reese's monitor was a framed photo, wedged in behind a stack of library books in their indestructible cellophane covers. He snagged the edge of the frame with two fingers and lifted it up into sight.

Good guess.

Reese and what could only be his dad, leaning shoulder to shoulder, sitting cross-legged on a scatter of dead leaves in dark woods, the glare of a campfire whiting out the lower right corner of the photo. A younger Reese, with shorter hair and startlingly non-black jeans and a fleece, was angling a crooked branch at his dad, offering him a blackened blob that might have been a marshmallow at some point. Mr. Anders, short and wiry with a small round potbelly barely visible under his windbreaker, was warding him off with two crossed index fingers and grinning brightly at his boy. They'd obviously been tight at some point. Still were apparently, despite Reese dressing like the kind of kid who refused to acknowledge his parents due to their lack of coolness.

Tom tightened his grip on the frame for a moment. Mrs. Anders wasn't in the picture, had not been mentioned by Reese's dad. But Reese didn't have that angry edge Tom associated with kids who'd grown up without their moms. He knew plenty of those—he was one of those kids—and it was like they were missing a limb or something, always hobbled and a little unsteady without that bedrock that came from growing up with the mythical mom love that anchored most people. He'd spent countless hours when he was little imagining what it would have been like to grow up with a mom, if his own hadn't died so long ago he didn't even remember her. Maybe she would have smoothed over the rough edges between his dad and him. Made their house more like the homes Tom had been in when visiting friends sometimes, as opposed to his own house. Large enough for him and his father to avoid each other for days if they felt like it and operated more as a training ground for Tom's future than a home base where you could feel safe.

The rattle of a key in the door lock shook him out of his daydreams. He shoved the picture behind the monitor and dropped back onto his bed, sprawled out across the wrinkled sheets by the time Reese made his way into the room.

“Hey.”

He nodded, eyes locked on his library book.

“You gonna be here all night?”

“Yup.”

He'd have to leave eventually to get food, but he didn't see the need to mention that now. Maybe if Reese thought he wasn't going anywhere for the rest of the evening, he'd stay in too, as opposed to going out fishing for another late night hook-up.

Not that Tom cared what the kid did with his free time.

Reese heaved a sigh and flopped back onto his own bed.

“That sucks. No offense.” Tom could see him out of the corner of his eye, staring up at the ceiling, head pillowed in crossed hands behind his skull. “I'm bored. And hungry.” He popped up like a marionette on strings, or a twenty-year-old with enough energy to go for days. Tiredness wrapped itself around Tom's bones simply being near this kid. “I'm gonna order a pizza. Want in on it?”

He chewed on his lip. Shit. The last thing he wanted to do was shut down this wilted olive branch offering from his roommate, but he knew the town pizzeria scalped the student crowd, a captive and frequently intoxicated audience. He didn't want to blow fifteen bucks on half a pizza when he could get an Italian grinder at the deli in the dodgy neighborhood six blocks away for half that.

“Forget it. If you're not interested—”

“Keep your panties on, kid. I'm in.” He'd stick to ramen and mac and cheese on the hot plate in the kitchenette for a couple of days. “No mushrooms, 'kay?”

“Ugh. Mushrooms are gross. Meat special, okay?”

“Yeah, I like meat.”

“You and me both, sailor.” The kid actually winked at him and the heat of a blush raced over Tom's face. He shook his head as Reese pulled his phone from his front jeans pocket. It'd be worth it, sharing a pie with his roommate like ordinary college students. Instead of their fucked up back and forth, with sex and resentment and a hint of fear that bothered Tom every time he picked up on it.

Maybe for tonight they could manage to eat and study and be normal together. Or at least as close to normal as Tom got these days.

It wouldn't last, but for one night, he'd take it.

The rhythm of Tom's days had settled into a steady heartbeat that steadied him. After two more weeks of cohabiting with Reese, he knew when to expect company in their room and when he would find himself alone. Sunday nights meant quiet study and easy conversation, as easy as it got with his touchy roommate, for both of them.

Tom's eyes were gritty with the need for sleep. His bones ached with exhaustion. The two hours of sleep he'd grabbed, catnapping behind the wheel while waiting at Logan airport for a fare, were a single row of sandbags trying to hold back the surging flood of sleep that wanted to overtake him. The door to their room was open an inch, light spilling into the hall. It was so unlike them that he stopped and looked up at the number on the plate above the bulletin board, flashing back to the first day he'd arrived on campus, tired enough to cry and wondering if he was in the right place.

Funny how that feeling never really went away.

23B.

Yup. Right place.

Even those words in his head made the warmth spill over in his chest.

He hadn't had a right place in a very long time.

He laid his palm flat against the ribbons and papers on the bulletin board, spreading his fingers around the bright pink, blue and green pushpins, and swept the door open in front of him as he strode into his right place.

Reese whirled around so suddenly his loose hair flew out in an arc like a raven's wing. The legs of his desk chair screeched across the floor as Reese yanked it between him and the door. His bare chest rising and falling above yoga pants, Reese inhaled harshly as if he'd sprinted a hundred yard dash and couldn't get enough oxygen in his lungs. He gripped the seat back with white fingers, eyes wide and blank. Tom froze, afraid Reese was going to lift the chair right up into the air and shove it at him.

Like a lion tamer, but way less fun than that kind of make-believe implied.

Because Tom didn't think Reese was playing.

Raising both hands, Tom hunched in on himself, taking up as little space as he could. He ducked his head and bent his knees reflexively.

“Easy.” He kept his voice low and quiet. “Friendly forces here.”

The shudder that wracked Reese swept from the top of his head to his arms and his legs, until the toes of Reese's bare feet tightened against the floor, his hands spasming on the chair. The sharp smell of sweat and fear flooded the room. Tom twitched his nose but left his hands in the air.

“I didn't hear you open the door.” Reese's voice was ragged, heavy cardboard ripping wetly.