Off Campus

by Amy Jo Cousins

  He leaned his head down until Reese’s hair brushed his cheek and he could talk into Reese’s ear.

  “I really like your dad.”

  Reese squeezed his hand and nodded.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty great.”

  By the end of the film, Reese had slid down next to him, half asleep and leaning against Tom’s shoulder, his arm wrapped around Tom’s from elbow to wrist. Mr. Anders was out cold in the recliner, snoring. Tom pressed Stop on the remote and shook Reese with his shoulder.

  “Hey. Should we wake your dad up?”

  Reese blinked up at him and sat up. Tom went to the DVD player and crouched, removing the DVD & putting it back in its case. He brought it back to the coffee table & set it down.

  “Yeah, I can do it. Clear him out so you can get some sleep without the Snore Master over there keeping you up.”

  He shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets and kicked a table leg. It was the kind of sturdy piece you were allowed to put your feet on. The kind of table two guys living together would have that never would have got past Reese’s mom if she’d still been alive.

  “I thought maybe I’d, um, come with you.” Reese was still on the couch, staring at him. “To sleep. If that’s okay.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He stood, his stance mimicking Tom unconsciously, hands in pockets, feet shuffling. “I mean, yes, that’d be good.”

  He crossed to his dad and shook him by the shoulder.

  “Hey, Pop, movie’s over. Go to bed, okay?”

  Mr. Anders scrubbed his face with his hands and sat up.

  “Right. Right. Okay.” He got up and shuffled out of the room, waving over his shoulder. “’Night, boys.”

  Reese stopped at the door on his way out of the room and snapped off the overhead light, plunging the room into darkness lit only by the Christmas lights circling the windows. He held a hand out to Tom.

  “Coming?”

  Holding hands was nothing compared to this. He wasn’t fucked up enough to go upstairs with Reese and then wake up early to come back down here and let Mr. Anders find him on the couch when he came down for his coffee.

  Okay, strike that. He was fucked up enough to think about it. But he wasn’t going to do it. So this was it. He was going upstairs to sleep in the same bed with his boyfriend at his dad’s house, or he was staying on the couch in the living room.

  Reese was silhouetted in the doorway, backlit by the light in the hall that his dad had left on.

  Tom shook his head. There wasn’t any question at all, was there?

  He grabbed Reese’s hand and held on tight.

  “Yeah. I’m here. Show me the way.”

  The entire January term vacation unrolled like some kind of strange, down-the-rabbit-hole fairytale for Tom. He drove a cab or gypsy-cabbed it in his own car twenty hours a day the first week, but he caught a few hours sleep with Reese after the bars closed almost every night.

  After seven days though, his vision blurred and reflexes shot, Reese refused to let him out of the house until he got eight solid hours of sleep. He also sat Tom down at the dining room table with his dad and they tried to talk him into accepting a loan instead of killing himself.

  Tom refused. No fucking way he was taking money from his boyfriend or his boyfriend’s dad. Not when he could see that the Anders weren’t exactly rolling in it. Whatever loan they offered him was coming out of funds they’d clearly need for Reese’s own education. He did let them browbeat him into emailing the dean, the econ department head, and his favorite econ prof, to explain how difficult his situation had become—and if he’d thought laying out all of the details of his personal life had been humiliating the first time around, that was nothing compared to his new open book policy—and Reese refrained from saying I told you so when emails came back offering help.

  It turned out that the dean couldn’t extend the deadline to pay his tuition, but she could arrange for a work-study job on campus, which would cover money for meals. Plus, she made Tom talk to the fin aid officer again. This time around he managed to explain himself and she managed to listen. The documentation was going to be way more complicated, and would involve regular check-ins with a social worker, but she could get him an exemption for homelessness. It wouldn’t help with federal aid until next year, but would allow the school to offer him some minimal aid, plus would allow him to access resources for students who were homeless. Even knowing that this was exactly what he’d hoped for all along, accepting the help was hard. Naming his vulnerability out loud was humiliating. He wanted to protest that he was nothing like those people, but Reese sat him down and made him see that he was, even if he had a place to stay right now and a fifty thousand dollar car to drive. He also forced Tom to repeat, over and over, that there wasn’t anything wrong with asking for this help. Tom was not taking advantage of anyone. It sucked and Tom hated him for it for two days, but in the end he talked to a social worker who discovered a program that would cover all of his books for the semester.

  Next, the department head offered him hours TAing a 100-level survey course, which paid a little better than the work-study hours. Best of all was Quillian, who knew of an unclaimed grant which the sponsoring foundation had decided not to award to any of the lackluster applicants that year. It took a solid twenty-four hours of essay writing and polishing, and Quillian pulling several of Tom’s professors away from their families and to their computers to write letters of recommendation, but with less than seven days to go, Tom was awarded a grant for full tuition, conditional upon his agreeing to commit to working for a non-profit for two years post-graduation.

  The foundation was sorry that they could only offer Tom a half a year of sponsorship at this time, but encouraged him to apply again next year.

  With the prospect of room fees at Perkins being his only expenses, and a schedule of only classes and on campus work, Tom retreated into a dazed silence. The money he had in the bank would more than cover his room fees, leaving him enough to pay for an apartment over the summer months. He would be eligible for financial aid to wrap up his final semester the following year, or for a full year’s worth at Carlisle if he wanted to take an extra semester and finish a double major before graduating. He didn’t even have to work for the rest of J-term.

  He sat on the Anders’ couch for an entire day, wrapped in the afghan while Mr. Anders worked and Reese met Steph at Faneuil Hall for a day touring cheesy tourist sights all around the city in honor of her twenty-first birthday. Tom turned on the TV but couldn’t keep track of any program for more than a few minutes.

  He didn’t understand what had happened to him, but he wasn’t dumb enough to miss the fucking lesson. For a year and a half, he’d talked to no one, relied on no one and made it through with sheer willpower. Now, in less than four weeks, he’d vomited the worst of his secrets all over, had embarrassed himself in front of more people than he could count, and he’d ended up with so much help he couldn’t wrap his brain around it.

  And it felt like real help. Not help he’d conned out of someone or finagled his way into, but help that was being given to him the same way it would be given to anyone else. He’d managed, somehow, to make it back into the world where decent people lived.

  He left a note for Reese, went to an old timer’s bar three blocks down, next door to the VFW, and got drunk.

  New habits died hard. There was Keystone Lager on tap for two dollars a pint. After a half a dozen pints, he’d tested his balance—as long as he could stagger he could make it three blocks to the Anders—when Reese and Steph showed up.

  The grizzled bartender ignored them and they didn’t try to order drinks, claiming to have drunk their weight in hot chocolate, spiked for Steph, already. They tugged at Tom’s arm until he slid off his stool, letting them drag him out the door and onto the T. He was swaying in his seat, trying not to lean against Reese, when he realized that no one he knew
took the T.

  He squinted at Reese, who squinted back and grinned, making fun of the drunk guy.

  “What, baby? Things a little blurry?”

  It didn’t even bother him that Reese called him baby. He was so not bothered by anything, T car rattling under his ass, that he leaned over and kissed Reese.

  Who stared at him wide-eyed the entire time, lips frozen as Tom corrected his aim and dragged his mouth over from his jaw.

  Fucking wobbly train threw him off.

  “Holy shit.” Steph’s whisper was as quiet as a shout. She turned all the way around in her seat to stare. “A public display of affection. Whatcha doing, Worthy?”

  He glared at her. Or tried to.

  “Don’ call me that.”

  Someone was pushing his face away from Steph but it was really important that he yell at her.

  “Hey. Baby.”

  Tom blinked.

  “Reese.”

  “That’s right.”

  “My Reese.”

  “I sure am.” Reese’s cheeks were pink and round. “You think you might do that again?”

  He could spend all night kissing Reese, whose mouth opened under his, so soft and tasting like chocolate. When Reese broke away and dragged him to the exit, laughing as the car doors slid closed, he protested.

  Steph got behind him and pushed. “C’mon, suddenly gay boy. You need to dance some of this booze off.”

  “Don’t dance.”

  “You will.”

  Even when he realized they’d dragged him to a gay club, bass pounding so loud his heart stuttered and realigned to the beat, he didn’t care. Fuck it. There wasn’t a goddamn thing the world didn’t know about him already. He’d spent two weeks flayed open and spread on a slide for school administrators and social workers to examine under a microscope. Why care if anyone saw him dance with his boyfriend? He was pretty drunk, but it was his idea to pull Reese into a dark corner behind the pile of speakers edging the stage. Reese held his hands while Tom backed up until his ass hit the wall. Moving with exaggerated care, he raised his arms until Reese pinned his hands to either side of his head.

  Reese’s eyes lit, catching flashes of light from the dance floor as he surged in close, grinding up against Tom and kissing him so hard his lips hurt. Tom held still under Reese’s hands and hips and rocked his own hard dick against the answering bulge in Reese’s jeans.

  “Want you to suck me.” He didn’t care that he was shouting over the music.

  “Mm-hmm. But not here, cowboy.” The scrape of teeth on his neck made him shiver.

  “Home.”

  Reese’s shoulders shook as he licked a stripe up the side of Tom’s neck. “Not while my dad’s down the hall.”

  “Tomorrow. Wanna suck you too.”

  “Tomorrow you’re gonna want to die and you won’t even remember this conversation.”

  “Will.” Because it felt like he could prove it with his dick, he pushed his hips forward again. When Reese let one of his wrists go to wrap a hand around Tom’s dick, he held his own wrist in a tight grip so he didn’t reach for Reese. Instead, he let Reese tease him and torture him and drag him back on the dance floor to rub up against him until Tom was sure he was going to end up coming in his pants anyway, long before they made it home.

  Reese was right about one thing, though. Tom didn’t forget a word of their conversation, but it was almost forty-eight hours before he wasn’t wishing for death and could deliver that blowjob while Mr. Anders was at work. The porcelain of the old claw-foot tub was hard on his knees and there was barely enough room for the two of them, the shower curtain smacking him in the face and threatening to suffocate him. He braced a hand under Reese’s ass and one against the wall, careful in the slippery tub that Reese didn’t lose his balance, and sucked him down until he gagged, forcing more than he could handle. He might be the one with his mouth open, but Reese was the open well down which Tom poured all of his confusion and gratitude and all the other crazy emotions that pushed and pulled him through each day.

  Four more days after that they headed back to school. Four days of food and laughter and Mr. Anders ruffling his hair when he passed. Of walking all over Boston, not hand-in-hand at all times but giving Reese a squeeze to say thank you or pressing a kiss to his cheek and acting as if he didn’t care if anyone saw them, because he was almost positive they wouldn’t or that it wouldn’t matter if they did.

  But those weren’t quite the same thing, and four days wasn’t forever.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back on campus for the start of the spring semester, Reese silently gave up arguing about whether Tom had fulfilled his end of the bargain and made an appointment at the Health Center with a therapist.

  Tom kept running in the early mornings, just in case. When the ground on the trail was clear of snow and ice, he ran outside. If not, he suffered through the mind-numbing boredom of the treadmill, trying to hit the gym at hours when he wouldn’t run into anyone. He’d talked to Coach and was back on a conditioning program, although it was clear to both of them he’d be working with the team as a trainer rather than competing. Indoor Track and Field season had already started, but by the time the outdoor season began in the spring Tom wouldn’t embarrass himself.

  So he kept running. For himself, and for the promise he’d made.

  If Tom thought Reese had been cranky at the idea of getting professional help, that was nothing compared to how hard he bitched after every therapy appointment.

  Tom was not helping matters. As soon as they hit campus, Tom curled up like a dry, dead leaf, all the life sucked out of him by the five thousand pairs of eyes he felt following him every time he left Perkins House. The first time Reese grabbed his hand as they left Perkins to head onto campus for class, Tom flinched and pulled away. He couldn’t explain it when Reese demanded to know what had changed overnight. Or rather, he didn’t explain it. Because he knew perfectly well what had changed.

  Reese didn’t speak to him for the rest of that day.

  Being out in Reese’s neighborhood in Boston, surrounded by solidly middle class families, not traditionally a hotbed of liberalism, was easier for Tom than being out on campus, where Carlisle Pride had voter registration drives and workshops every weekend, but the Greek system still ruled over the social universe. The average student had better odds of passing a calc final without studying than getting away with holding hands with his boyfriend in public without harassment.

  But Tom wasn’t the average student. The landline in their room had started ringing off the hook with hang-up phone calls that Tom was convinced were journalists who disconnected when Reese answered the phone. His father’s first parole hearing was coming up and articles rehashing the sting operation and trial were popping up in the Globe and USA Today. He flinched whenever a cell phone near him clicked as someone took a snapshot, though he knew any pictures taken of him would be silent and from a distance.

  Reese thought he was a paranoid asshole who vastly over-estimated how much the world gave a damn about the son of a white-collar criminal, no matter how record-breaking the bust.

  He voted for Evil Nemesis as the hang-up caller. In the end, they turned the ringer off and ignored the problem, because it was too far down on their list of shit to deal with.

  Tom didn’t drive any more on the weekends, but being on campus from Friday through Sunday was almost worse than exhausting himself behind the wheel of a cab. Reese might never be a social butterfly, even after therapy, but he was far more social than Tom. The trio of friends now, Cash, Steph and Reese, were relentless in bids to get Tom to join them in more than playing video games in Cash’s room or studying as a group in the library. Especially after Cash was busted with beer in the stacks and almost got himself kicked off the team. Partying was restricted to actual parties from that day forward, and nothing would do but that Tom joined the
m. Coming up with excuses to stay in was harder than cleaning a drunk’s vomit out of back seat floor mats.

  Four weeks into the semester, Reese’s mood post-therapy didn’t show any signs of improving. Twice a week he was a total shit to be around, silent and pale before heading out to his appointment, full of piss and vinegar afterward.

  Tom had tried comforting him, leaving him alone, and asking Reese what he wanted Tom to do. He’d gotten, respectively, a cold shoulder, a guilt trip about ignoring Reese, and a snapped out, “Nothing!”

  He’d taken to being there in their room, waiting for Reese. If nothing else, he could be a witness. And a verbal punching bag, if that was what Reese needed. Since he was failing on every other front as a boyfriend.

  Reese was stripping off his scarf and hat, whipping them in the open door of his closet before slamming it shut with a bang. His hair stuck up every which way and his eyes bounced around the room, skipping over Tom and looking for a safe place to land. He tracked melting snow and muck off his shoes as he came in the room.

  “It sucks.” The slam of his messenger bag on the floor. “I have to talk about it, again and again. He wants me to tell him every goddamn detail about what happened. And I get it. I’m not an idiot. I know what talk therapy is.” Coat unzipped, balled up and pitched to the corner of the bed where it slid to the floor. “I know that this will help me get a handle on it and let it stop controlling my life and be able to think or talk about it without fucking freezing up or having a panic attack, but it’s fucking hard and I don’t want to do it anymore!”

  Tom stayed on his bed, pretty sure that approaching Reese was a bad idea right now. His boy was seething with unhappiness, but both of them were smart enough to know there wasn’t anything to do about shitty situations like this but get through them.