Chapter One
Tommy
Tommy had wanted cheap and quick, so the courthouse had seemed like the best option. Christ knew he’d been there often enough for bad news and bullshit, so maybe going just once for something good would be okay. The fact that Bobby didn’t care one way or another—or at least he claimed he didn’t—helped.
Even Judy was fine with the idea, which had been a surprise. The kids didn’t give a shit, said Tommy and Bobby were already married, so what did it matter anyway? And they were right, right? Getting it all legal and approved by the government was just a formality that didn’t mean fuck all compared to what they did every day of their lives together.
So why, when it came down to it, when it came time to make the appointment, did it bother Tommy? Why did the idea of standing in front of a judge in a dingy little room with bad fluorescent lighting, a quick couple of words, and a piece of paper seem wrong? He didn’t know for sure, but he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the idea of Bobby thinking of it all that way either. That it was a formality. That the wedding part didn’t mean anything.
Because maybe it did.
He shut his laptop and glanced over at Bobby, sitting on the floor with Max and Zoe, playing and laughing with them. Collin and Davey shit-talked as they beat each other up in a video game; Carrie was watching some hair tutorial on her tablet. Colleen was in class, and Mike was off with friends. Judy hovered in the kitchen, across from where Tommy sat at the bar.
“Did you get your appointment set?” she asked, pulling a roast out of the oven.
He was too lost in thought to have a conversation about anything. “Nah,” he said as he stood, pushing the stool in. “Changed my mind.”
Judy glanced at him but didn’t give anything away in her expression. “Oh?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said, running his hand through his hair, tugging on a tangle. He needed a haircut. Colleen usually did it for him, but she’d been too busy for any of that. Judy had taken the kids in to her hair salon the month before, got everyone a trim and a shampoo by a pro for the first time in their lives. Collin and the twins hated it. Carrie adored the girl and chattered at her the entire time. Davey liked it too, but if Tommy had to guess, it probably had something to do with getting tits in his face. At almost fifteen, he was a perv. But most boys were at that age, and he kept his hands to himself and didn’t do anything to make anyone uncomfortable, which was probably the best Tommy could hope for. “I need a haircut,” he said as he grabbed his jacket.
Bobby got up and walked over to Tommy. His face, Tommy could read. Concern. Hurt. Curiosity. “Why’d you change your mind, Tom?”
Tommy shrugged into his beat-up leather. “I don’t know,” he said absentmindedly. “Just doesn’t feel right.” If he hadn’t been thinking about how bad he wanted a cigarette, how bad he wanted to burn off some restless energy, how bad he wanted to find the right thing for them both, put his hands on it, figure it all out, he probably would’ve said it better, or said more, or said anything else at all. Instead, he patted Max and bent down to give Zoe a kiss, then headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”
Bobby
“Don’t start, Mom,” Bobby said, letting out a sigh. He loved her, and he appreciated her, but right then, he didn’t think he could handle any questions or advice or even a well-intended condolence.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said—lied. Bobby was fairly sure. “I hope you’re hungry.” She plated the roast, put the vegetables around it. “Mike said he might not be home for dinner, and I know Colleen is working after class, so…”
“Smells good,” he said. Halfhearted and distracted, food the furthest thing from his mind. Not even the twins could hold his attention. Fucking Tom. Changed his mind about the courthouse? Changed his mind about getting married? Changed his mind about living together? Who the hell could know? Because Tommy O’Shea still didn’t like to say what was on his mind until it burst out of his head in a fit of rage or a desperate plea or whatever the hell. Bobby let out a deep, frustrated breath, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. Then he laughed. Because, yeah, Tom was a dick, but between them, Bobby was probably a little crazy. What sane person would want to marry such a pain in the ass? “Think he still wants to marry me?”
Judy shrugged.
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Say what you were going to say. Please.”
She sighed, but her face was all love and kindness. Because some things don’t change, no matter how old he got or what life threw at him. “I think Tommy’s never gone back on his word in his life,” she said as she covered the roast. She wiped her hands on a dish towel Carrie had made in school, set it aside, and then reached for Bobby. “He wouldn’t have asked you if it hadn’t been on his mind—if it hadn’t been something he wanted.” She cupped his chin, just like she did when he was a little boy when he was worried or hurting, and maybe she saw more in his face than he even wanted to admit to himself. “And there’s no way in the world that’s changed.”
He leaned over the kitchen bar and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks, Ma,” he whispered against her skin. Maybe he still needed to hear it from Tom and understand what the hell was going on in Tom’s head, but his mother was right. Probably. She usually was. “How long can we hold dinner before it’s gross?”
“Not long,” Judy said, but she grinned and patted his cheek. “You better hurry.”
With a nod, with a quick goodbye to the kids, Bobby took off after him. Where to was another question. He’d said he needed a haircut, but to Bobby’s knowledge, he’d never gone to a barbershop in his life. Down to the pub for a drink? Maybe. Gene’s? Another solid possibility, but they hadn’t been fighting, not exactly, so probably not.
In the end, Bobby just drove around a little, keeping an eye out for Tom—who was on foot because he still hadn’t made up his mind about what kind of car to get or if he should get a loan or use his savings or get a junker or something new. For reasons Bobby couldn’t fathom, Tom couldn’t make up his mind about anything these days.
So, really, maybe changing his mind about the wedding shouldn’t have been much of a surprise.
He found Tom standing outside a candy store, of all places, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets—not smoking, which shocked the hell out of Bobby. He stood and he shivered and he stared. Bobby parked and walked up behind him.
“Planning a heist?” he asked, teasing, nudging Tom on the shoulder.
Tom glanced at Bobby, didn’t even jump, as if he’d been expecting the company. “No heist, copper. Just… thinkin’.”
“Got a headache yet?”
Tom glared at him for that, but he laughed, too, at the same time he flipped Bobby off. “My head was just fine till you turned up.”
Bobby grinned. Tom’s little jabs and cynical remarks had gotten fewer and further between over the last year or two and sometimes Bobby missed them. And how fucked-up was that? He didn’t want to examine it too much, so he put a pin in it. “What’re you thinking about?”
With a shrug, Tom said, “I don’t even know. Just was walkin’ by, and I saw this place with those colors in the window, and it looked real fun or something, so I stopped.”
“Wanna go in? I’ll buy you a sucker.”
He got a laugh for that. “Don’t need a sucker when I got you.”
“I’m sure you meant that to sound flirty and hot, but it just makes me sound like your sugar daddy.”
“I never said I was good at this shit.”
“That’s very true,” Bobby said as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Tom’s cheek.
Before Bobby could say anything else, Tom said, “I don’t know what my favorite color is.”
“I’d always assumed it was black like your soul.” He knew before he even finished the sentence that it wasn’t the time for jokes, but Tom’s look, Tom’s shrug, the sag to his shoulders, confirmed it for Bobby. “What about in that window?” Bobby asked, kicking himself. “Plenty to choose from.”
Tom nodded, leaned in a little closer to the glass. “I kinda like that one,” he said, pointing to a jar full of pale blue jelly beans.
Bobby didn’t mention that they were almost the exact same color as his own eyes, wondered if Tom even realized it. “It’s a good color,” he said instead.
“Yeah,” Tom said with a nod. “Makes me feel good to look at it.” He stepped back, walked a few paces up the street, then glanced at Bobby.
He wasn’t sure if that look was an invitation to follow or simply seeing if Bobby would, but of course, he did. He’d follow Tom anywhere, and it’d been that way since before they got together. “So… that’s what was on your mind? You didn’t know what your favorite color is?” Bobby knew there was more to it than that, but getting him to talk about whatever was in his head was tricky sometimes.
Another shrug. “Not just that,” he said, letting out a white huff of breath into the frigid evening. “Just… I don’t know, it’s weird, right? Everyone has a favorite color.” He patted his pockets down, looking for his cigarettes, Bobby was sure, but he came up empty. “Zoe’s is yellow and Max’s is purple and Colleen likes orange and Carrie likes pink and lavender. Christ, Davey’s is green and Mike’s is red and Collin’s is brown—why, I’ll never know—and yours is green too, and your mom likes hot pink.”
“Fuchsia,” Bobby said out of habit.
“Right, that,” Tom said with another glance at him. Nettled, but Bobby didn’t think Tom was nettled with him, just in general. “It’s weird not to know that kind of shit about yourself.”
For most people, yeah, but for Tom? With everything he’d been through, everything he’d dealt with, probably not. When the hell did he have time to figure himself out and figure out what he liked? “I think, given the trauma of—”
“Yeah, I know. My traumatic childhood didn’t allow me to even know what fucking color I like or what kind of music or movies or anything else.” Tom huffed again, walking faster. “I’m so goddamn sick of that. It’s over. Shit’s good now.”
Bobby didn’t make a sound, didn’t change his expression, just kept up with Tom’s long strides, but that little acknowledgment from him nearly knocked Bobby on his ass. Shit was good, and Tom knew it. He really wanted to point out that Tom could probably get a hell of a lot out of therapy, but he didn’t say so. There was never a good time for that conversation, but right that minute might be the worst possible. “So maybe you can start figuring that stuff out now?”
Tommy looked at him again, longer this time, nodded. “Yeah, maybe so.”
“We could start with favorite food,” Bobby said, nudging his arm. “Dinner’s waiting back home.”
“Yeah. Smelled good,” he said, slowing his pace slightly. “Your mom always makes good stuff.”
She did. Everyone thought so. “Got a favorite of hers?”
Tom shrugged again. “I like it when she makes that corned beef. I think that’s my favorite.” He paused and then added, “Of hers. Not in general.”
Bobby still couldn’t figure out why they were walking when he had a perfectly good car three blocks back, but if Tom needed to blow off some steam, Bobby figured he’d let him. “What about in general? If you had to pick a top fave?”
“Remember that dinner we had in Mexico? At that one place on the beach? With the green sauce and the white cheese and the shrimp?”
“I don’t remember what it was called, but yeah, I remember that night.” Mostly because he had never seen Tom so relaxed. They’d had sex all morning and laughed all afternoon, walked on the beach and played in the water and then eaten until they both wanted to pass out. Tom didn’t just laugh a few times or tease him and smile. He’d grinned all day and acted like he couldn’t touch Bobby enough, couldn’t get close enough. Tom was a totally different person when he wasn’t worried about something or arguing about something. Bobby didn’t love that Tom more, but he sure as hell enjoyed it when the guy showed up.
“That’s too bad because I’d like to have that again. I think that’s my favorite food.”
And if Bobby had to bribe the chef at that restaurant for the recipe, he’d make sure Tom got that dinner at least once a month till the day they died. “I’ll look it up online,” he said. “I bet their menu is posted, so we can at least get the name of it.”
Tom being Tom said, “You don’t gotta go to any trouble.”
Because of course an internet search would be too much trouble. Bobby snorted a laugh but didn’t say anything. “So, favorite food and favorite color. What else?”
For seemingly no reason, Tom turned at the next corner, so apparently, they were doing a six-block circuit. “I don’t know,” he said absently. “You got a favorite song?”
Bobby had to think for a moment. “I feel like songs should have subcategories for favorites,” he said. “I like a lot of different kinds of music. Stuff to dance to, stuff to relax to, stuff for road trips… there’s a lot to choose from.”
“Yeah,” Tommy said, almost defeated. “I usually just listen to whatever’s on the radio, ya know? And I like classic rock, but I think that’s mostly because my mom liked it and played a lot of the old songs when she was in a good mood, same with my old man.”
The fact that Tom had even one good memory from them was a shock, but it happened occasionally.
“Even he has favorites. What the fuck.”
He didn’t say Cal’s name, but Bobby knew who he was talking about. Of course Cal had favorites and knew what he liked and didn’t like. He’d had all the time in the world to figure that shit out because his oldest son was there to clean up after all of his messes. Bobby had to bite his tongue on that one, though, because as much as he’d like to say it, he knew it wouldn’t help. Instead, he said, “We’ll put a pin in the music for now. What about movies?”
“Christ,” Tom muttered, tucking his jacket more tightly around himself. “I don’t know. I usually just watch whatever’s on, what the kids wanna see or what you pick. I… I don’t know, and it’s pissing me off.” With a growl, he added, “How the fuck do you figure out what you like or what you want when you’ve never let yourself want anything or like anything because the odds of getting it a second time are zero?”
Frustration radiated off him, tension in every muscle. Bobby wanted to pull him into a tight hug, hold him close, but he knew Tom better than that. “Let’s just go in here and get a coffee?” He pulled the door open to the convenience store—the same one Bobby had found Tom trying to steal the babies some Tylenol drops a million years ago on a night that would change the course of both of their lives forever.
Tom didn’t say anything as he walked inside, toward the back to the coffee machine, and started putting one together for Bobby first, then himself. Because of course.
At the register, he eyed the cigarette display behind the clerk, and Bobby could practically feel Tom’s fingers itching for one.
“And a pack of Marlboro Reds,” Bobby said as he pulled a twenty from his pocket.
Even as the clerk grabbed the pack and set it on the counter, Tom looked so torn between gratitude and annoyance it was almost funny.
“The only reason you hadn’t bought a pack yet is because I caught up to you,” Bobby said as he slid them toward Tom. “And a couple of cigarettes is probably better than you having a mental breakdown on the sidewalk.” He grabbed both of their coffees with his change and followed Tom out the door again.
“You’re not wrong,” Tommy said as he slapped the pack on the palm of his hand a few times before ripping it open like a starving man with a bag of chips. He’d been trying to quit smoking for more than a year, maybe two now. It was hit-and-miss, but Bobby didn’t care. Yeah, he wanted Tom to live a long, healthy life, but he also wanted Tom to be sane, and sometimes that meant choosing the lesser of two evils.
He lit up and took three long drags before he said anything. “Thanks for this. I know they’re stupid expensive, and I shouldn’t be doin’ it…”
“Shut up and smoke your cigarette. At least you know your favorite for that,” Bobby said with a smile as he passed Tom’s coffee back to him. “Why don’t we head back to the car? Turn on the heat. We don’t have to go home yet if you’re not ready, but I’m freezing my balls off out here.” Bobby had left in such a hurry he hadn’t put more than his hoodie on, and that didn’t do much against the bitter winter chill.
“Shit,” Tom muttered, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he started to shift out of his jacket. “Here, take mine.”
Before he could get one arm out, Bobby stopped him. “Or you keep that on, and we go sit in the car.” Which was what he really wanted.
He didn’t say anything but turned back toward the candy store, where Bobby had found him. After several minutes—and another cigarette—Tom said, “I don’t want you to think I changed my mind about getting married. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” He hadn’t, not for sure. Tom’s sideways glance, his crooked smirk, spoke volumes. The asshole really did know him well. “Okay, now I know.”
Tom huffed a laugh, and Bobby couldn’t help but smile.
“So what did you change your mind about?”
“I don’t know,” he said before taking a sip from his coffee, then another, probably buying himself some time, thinking. After a few long beats, almost another block covered, Tom finally said, “Maybe not the courthouse, ya know? Maybe somewhere a little nicer. Maybe a party after instead of just family dinner. Nothin’ big or expensive or anything, but… something.”
Because spending even a few thousands of dollars on one night of their life would, of course, be out of the question for Tom. And, if he were honest, Bobby agreed. He’d rather blow it all on the honeymoon, like they’d discussed. Or keep saving and buy a house or just be able to retire one day. “Something is good,” he agreed. Something sounded nice. So did the courthouse, so did just family dinner. But something would be good too. Bobby didn’t really give a damn. He wanted Tom. Wanted Tom to be his husband and his partner for the rest of their lives. The wedding was just window dressing. “Maybe Gene would let us have the pub for a day? Do it there? Or at least a party there after?”
If Tom’s scowl was anything to go by, the answer to that was no.
“Maybe,” Tom said. Then lit another cigarette just as they got to the car.
Bobby would be happy getting married right then and there if it meant he could get in and turn the heat on, but Tom seemed content to stand there, while snowflakes caught in his hair and eyelashes, and set up camp for the night.
After a long drag and the last sip of his coffee, Tom said, “I like it there, ya know? It’s a good place. I’m happy there. But it just ain’t right. Not for somethin’ special.”
And just like that, Bobby wasn’t cold anymore. He understood, from one breath to the next, what was eating at Tom. Special. He’d never had anything special in his entire fucking life and probably thought he wouldn’t ever again. So getting married was his something special—their something special—and Bobby would stand on the freezing sidewalk until he died of hypothermia if Tom wanted to, if it meant he could figure out what special was. “You’re right,” Bobby said. “We can do better than that.”
“Yeah we can.” Tommy flipped his butt into the gutter and got in the car.
Thank God. Bobby’s fingers were about to turn purple.