Chapter Text
The fall wouldn’t kill her.
Lydia glanced down over the roof ledge. Sounds of the raucous wrap party for the theatre club’s amateur production of King Lear, costume design courtesy of Lydia Deetz, echoed from downstairs. Once the actors playing Lear and Cordelia had started making out she’d booked it to the roof. This particular campus-adjacent house only had two stories, and the yard below looked unkempt (theatre kids weren’t known for their landscaping skills) but still…cushiony. She let her foot dangle over an eave and shivered. Cold November air plus relatively thin party clothes plus very low body fat equaled a bad time. She should’ve at least worn a jacket.
One black fingernail scraped at the label of the Natural Light bottle she’d been holding all evening. Still, she reflected, heaving herself off the roof of the theatre house would be easier than going fucking home for Thanksgiving.
She’d gotten an email that morning notifying her that her application to stay on campus over the long Thanksgiving break had been declined. Lydia could understand that - she was just a freshman, and while her midterm grades held steadily above a 3.75, her rejection letter stated that they were only offering over-break housing to students who couldn’t return home, whether because they didn’t have one to return to or they had jobs they couldn’t leave, or whatever.
Perfectly reasonable. Also perfectly devastating.
She’d thought about alternatives in case of this scenario occurring, of course. Like hiding in her dorm’s closet all break. Running away to join a cult. If she’d had any friends, now would be a good time to ask them to stage a kidnapping. Her roommate, sadly, had already left early, and Lydia couldn’t easily stow away in her car.
Anything would be better than going back to Winter River to spend several uninterrupted days with Dad and Delia.
But the reality was, if she didn’t have the excuse of a college-sanctioned activity to skip out on the holiday, Dad would murder her if she didn’t show her face. Or else stop paying her tuition. Same difference, really.
Lydia scowled and peeled off more of the label. Dead Mom had loved Thanksgiving, too. Set out a cornucopia right after Halloween ended, always baked at least three pies, let Lydia help in the kitchen. And it was always just the three of them, starting the morning with the Macy’s Parade and ending the night with Christmas movies on the couch. Quiet. Nice.
And now God knew how many awful guests they’d have, or what kind of garbage Delia would cook. (Lydia didn’t even like turkey, but she felt certain that whatever vegan junk her hippie stepmom made would taste worse.)
So now she was…moping, yeah. Flicking little scraps of silver and blue label away to flutter onto the grass below. Seriously considering if a broken leg or fractured hip was worth the potential hospital stay to avoid her family.
She startled and nearly plummeted off the roof when a weight dropped onto her shoulders. Someone’s coat. It smelled like cooking oil and tobacco smoke, which was only slightly off-putting considering how much warmth surrounded her instantly.
“You look like you could use a buddy,” said a raspy voice to her left, and then its owner lowered himself to the roof edge with a quiet symphony of pops and groans.
“Jesus, should you even be up here, old man? You sound like a fucking bowl of rice krispies.” Lydia raised a derisive eyebrow at him, just barely holding back a sneer. Now that he was down on her level, she recognized him, and she didn’t want to have to deal with some guy who dropped out ages ago, but still showed up to every theater party. Gossip was always that he was dating someone or another; Lydia didn’t believe that. She saw around him the desperate sort of aura that followed men who chased the highs of their younger years.
At best, they had no better prospects and would circle the drain for decades; at worst, they were predatory assholes hoping to take advantage of young women.
“Ouch, right through the heart,” he said, holding a hand to his chest. “I give you my jacket, and you repay me with murder? Rude.”
Lydia blinked. Of course it was his jacket. She debated shrugging it off and giving it back to him just on principle, but it was a very welcome barrier against the chill in the air, even if she did find his whole deal to be…pathetic. She probably shouldn’t have snapped at him quite so harshly.
“I’m…sorry,” she said awkwardly. “And thank you.”
He snorted and patted her knee, which made her jump. “‘S all right,” he said. “I’m the creepy old guy walking up to the girl sitting on her own at a party.” He sipped his drink and leaned back on one arm, swinging his dangling legs. “So, what brings you to the roof?”
Lydia watched him from the corner of her eye, actually looking at him for the first time. He wore combat boots with his black slacks, which were held up by old-fashioned button suspenders that stretched over his round belly. His wrinkled shirt probably used to be white, but had faded to a sort of dingy ivory--probably washed with the rest of his clothes. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his thick hairy forearms, and his graying hair had been combed back.
The beer must be affecting her more than she thought, because he looked kind of…cute.
“Gonna jump so I don’t have to go home for break,” she said (after ogling him for a too-long pause). “I’m debating whether to aim for the sidewalk or that birdbath over there.”
He went rigid next to her. Fuck, she’d stepped in it again, hadn’t she? Chalk that one up as another person scared off by her morbid sense of humor.
He stared at her for a long moment (God, she hoped he didn’t see the blush she felt heating her cheeks), then relaxed a hair.
“Well,” he said cautiously, “assuming you wanna live…” He paused but seemed to find some kind of confirmation in her posture. The rest of his tension left him and he continued, “I’d go for the sidewalk. Less likely to fuck it up and hit something important.”
Lydia felt a wave of relief (Really? part of her whispered. Why are we relieved we didn’t scare this guy off?) and snorted. “Yeah, a broken leg would be ideal. Hampers movement but doesn’t necessarily lead to permanent damage if you set it right.” She glanced down at her boots. “Or I could just. You know. Not be a baby.”
“Eh, parents suck like nothing else,” the guy said. “And Thanksgiving’s a garbage holiday.”
“I don’t hate them,” Lydia protested. “I just…don’t want to deal with it.”
He hummed and sipped his drink. “I get that. Thought about fuckin’ with them, instead?” When Lydia looked him in the face (and noted his warm hazel eyes—what was wrong with her?) he elaborated, “Like, coming back with new piercings or a shaved head or a weird date.”
“I’m pretty sure my stepmom’s shaved her head before,” Lydia said, slowly, because she was actually considering this, “and they know I’m bi, so it wouldn’t be shocking if I brought a girl home or something.”
He nudged her in the shoulder and grinned. “You’re thinkin’ small. Bring home a convicted felon. Come back with a full face tattoo.” Lydia grimaced and he cackled. “Or, hell, I dunno, burn the house down.”
“Arson can be the fallback plan,” Lydia said, but she felt herself smiling too. Hopefully her blush had faded by now. Or she could blame it on the beer. Whatever. “But it’s an old house. There’s probably asbestos in the walls. Wouldn’t burn well.” After peeling more of the label off her beer bottle, she glanced down. “I guess I could find someone objectionable. Check the court dockets for sentences being appealed. Or bribe somebody.” She frowned. “But that would mean forcing someone to be around Delia, and I don’t think I have enough money to compensate anyone for that level of annoyance.”
The guy laughed, then got a funny look on his face. After a moment, he said, cautiously, “What if…you took me?”
Lydia froze. “What?”
“Like, I’ve only got misdemeanors on my record, and those were ages ago, but I’m pretty good at ‘objectionable,’” the guy said, making air quotes with his thick fingers. He set his solo cup down. (Weirdly, it looked like it just contained water.) “I don’t got anything better to do. Fuck, you wouldn’t even need to pay me.”
“You’re joking, right?” Lydia asked. “I mean, I appreciate the offer to pretend to be my boyfriend or whatever but…don’t you have people? Friends? Family?”
“That’s cute,” he said. His toothy smile faded momentarily but came back fast. “Nah. This’d be better than the usual double shift at the diner. I'm just sayin', if you wanna piss off your family, I’m probably twice your age and a grade-A fuckup by all standards.” He counted on his fingers, warming to his idea as he rattled off points. “I dropped out of college in the 2010s and I work as a line cook and I drive a real messed-up van.” Lydia still couldn’t tell if he was kidding or not. “I’m basically parent kryptonite. Even my own parents.” He laughed, but the laugh didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Lydia paused and thought about it. Opened her mouth to do the responsible thing and say “thanks, but no.” “Okay, sure,” she said instead.
Now it was the guy’s turn to freeze. “Wait, really?”
Lydia shrugged. “My dad will hate you, and they’ll never ask me to come back,” she said. “Maybe I’ll put them off Thanksgiving forever.” And then she wouldn’t have to celebrate Dead Mom’s favorite day with Delia ever again. “If I tell them I’m bringing a boyfriend, they might buy you a train ticket–”
“Oh no,” he interrupted. “First of all, you don’t wanna tip ‘em off that I’m coming. Plus, like I said, I got a van. I’ll drive. Where do they live?”
“A tiny town in Connecticut,” Lydia said. She licked her lips. At any point she could, and should, back out of this objectively terrible idea. But something about the idea of making Dad turn purple and freaking Delia out made her stomach flutter with excitement.
It definitely wasn't that she’d be doing it with this guy, who, for all his grimy appearance, had forearms that she wanted to chew on.
Stop it. This is strictly business, Lydia thought to herself. “You do understand that you’re not actually going to sleep with me, right?”
He scoffed. “I’m not that kinda guy. Now, if you offered…” He leered at her and waggled his eyebrows. Lydia pretended to gag.
“Gross,” she said. But she offered him her hand. “I’m Lydia. You should probably know that if you’re pretending to be my boyfriend.”
The guy smirked at her and took her hand in his much larger one. “Lawrence. Pleasure doin’ business with ya.”
Chapter Text
Lydia fully didn’t expect Lawrence to show. He said he’d pick her up outside her dorm on Wednesday after his shift was over, sometime after 5 PM, but there was no way he’d actually think this was a good idea when he thought about it with a clear head. Lydia certainly didn’t (nevermind the small thrill in her gut at the thought of bringing a complete stranger home to meet her parents). They hadn’t even exchanged numbers or contact information, just a time and location like it was the nineties.
So she was more than a little surprised when her packing was interrupted by her RA knocking on the door and informing her with no small amount of judgment that “some asshole” was waiting outside for her. A peek out her window proved that Lawrence was a man of his word.
Startled and suddenly off-balance, Lydia raced to finish throwing clothes into her suitcase, double-checked that she had the necessities (toothbrush and phone charger), and took the stairs down to the courtyard with reckless abandon. She burst out into the cooling evening more than a little out of breath, her hair sticking to her face.
Lawrence leaned against the side of his van (red, Honda Odyssey, manufactured at least a decade ago), tapping away at his phone (off-brand Android in an Otterbox). He wore a faded black hoodie and stained jeans with tattered hems and holes over the knees. Lydia swallowed down a feeling that definitely was not disappointment at how covered up he was.
“You came!” she said.
He looked up from his phone and smiled—which did not make her stomach erupt in butterflies, thank you. “Hey, once I make a deal, I stick to it, babes,” he said. He took her suitcase from her with one hand and held open the passenger-side door with the other. “Just, uh, fuck. I meant to clear all that shit out. Gimme a sec to throw that in the back, sorry.”
The interior of the van was…well-loved. Showing its age. It had seen better years.
It was gross.
The beige carpet was gray with ground-in dirt and stains, and littered with empty Red Bull cans. A pile of clothes sat on the seat—his work uniform by the looks of it—along with the discarded remains of at least five fast-food to-go bags. Lawrence opened the side door to heft her suitcase in, revealing piles of trash interspersed among varied useful items. Lydia saw two huge cast-iron pans, a rolled-up sleeping bag, a pile of Harlequin romance novels, and an anvil, for some reason.
Lawrence tossed the clothes and garbage from the passenger seat into the back, then brushed off the leather and gestured for Lydia to climb in. She did, neatly tucking her dress under her thighs and making herself as small in the seat as she could, so as not to touch anything. The inside cladding of the door nearly came off when she tried to pull it closed after herself, but Lawrence caught it in a move that looked practiced, latching it back together before closing the door for her.
When he rounded the front to enter the driver’s side, he wouldn’t meet her eyes and his ears were red with a flush.
Lydia realized she was probably making a face. She did that sometimes without realizing it. Without Delia to tell her she was doing it, she wouldn’t know, honestly. So Lydia consciously forced her mouth into a smile.
“You should see how my dorm room looks,” she said, attempting to make light of the situation. “My desk especially. Piles of stuff everywhere.” The part about her desk, at least, was true. She probably had at least three projects going in various media at a time and didn’t want to bother putting them up when they were half in progress.
Lawrence’s eye darted over to her and he paused for a minute before smiling crookedly back. “Yeah, uh. Don’t know where half this shit comes from.”
“Yeah,” Lydia said, glancing at the anvil, “did you just come from trying to catch the roadrunner or something?”
That made him laugh. “Nah,” he said. He put his arm over the back of her seat and craned his neck back in a poor attempt to back out of where he’d parallel parked. “Renfaire. And also it helps with, uh, weight balance. Makes it easier to go over speed bumps, if you believe that.”
Lydia did not believe that for a minute.
They drove through campus and through the streets in companionable silence. Once they were on the highway, though, Lawrence tapped his fingers on the wheel. “You okay? Second thoughts?”
Yeah, sort of. “No,” Lydia said. “I’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to freak Dad and Delia out.”
He made a considering noise. “Stepmom?”
“Yep.” Lydia frowned. “She’ll probably ask a lot of questions.”
“I mean, I would.” Lawrence snorted. “Like, uh…”
Lydia’s stomach growled. Very loudly.
“God, I’m sorry, I should’ve eaten beforehand–”
“Hey, hey, ‘s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Lawrence glanced at the dashboard. Lydia followed his eyes and then looked away quickly. Was every indicator light on? “I need to get gas soon anyway. What say we stop and you can run in and get, like, a pretzel or something.”
Thankfully, they happened upon a gas station a couple exits away. Lawrence pulled up to a pump and Lydia dug around in her purse. She had a couple of bills—at least one twenty, and a couple of smaller ones. She shoved them into Lawrence’s hands and said “for gas” before she bounded inside to grab a mac and cheese and an iced tea. And a pretzel for Lawrence since it’d be weird to eat alone.
When she came back out, plastic bag in hand, she found Lawrence dumping the fast food bags and a good chunk of the trash into a garbage can. “You didn’t have to—” she began.
Lawrence held up his hands. “Nope. Needed to get around to it at some point.”
She nodded, then remembered what was in her own bag. “Oh, I got you…” she trailed off before handing him the packaged pretzel, still vaguely warm from the heating rack.
Lawrence looked down at it, then back to Lydia, then down at it again. “Th-thanks,” he said, turning red again. “I, um. I had a burger on my shift, but.”
Now Lydia’s ears burned. “I’ll just—”
His big hand closed over hers. “We’ve got a four-hour drive ahead of us,” Lawrence said. He gave her another crooked smile, but this one made his hazel eyes crinkle up at the corners. Lydia swallowed hard.
“Yeah,” she said, and smiled back.
They were back on the road in short order. Lydia balanced her mac and cheese on her knees and all but inhaled it.
“So, how did we meet?” Lawrence asked, when she’d tucked her trash back into the plastic bag and wiped her face.
She froze. “Uh,” she hedged. “What?”
“You know, our backstory. For your parents,” he explained.
“Oh!” She…hadn’t really thought that far ahead. “Um.” Lydia wouldn’t say she was a bad liar, but suddenly faced with infinite options, her mind went completely blank.
Lawrence took pity on her. “Well, generally sticking close to the truth is the best bet,” he said. “So we can say that we met at a frat party.” He drummed the steering wheel a bit. “Sloppy hook-up?” He affected an accent that somehow completely eliminated his rasp. “‘Sometimes it’s like they’re just asking for it, am I right Mr. Deetz?’”
Lydia wrinkled her nose and shifted in her seat. “Gross. I was thinking more along the lines of ‘held my hair while I was puking.’”
“I thought I was supposed to be an unapologetic asshole in this situation.”
“Yeah, but it’s gotta be believable, right?” She paused, feeling her cheeks flush. “I—I mean—or, I don’t mean that I don’t hook up, or that I wouldn’t hook up with you, or—Christ I’m just gonna stop talking.”
Lawrence kept his eyes on the road. “No, no, I get it,” he said with an infuriatingly steady voice. “Mom and Dad don’t think of their little girl as a sexual being.”
“Stepmom,” Lydia corrected automatically. “And she definitely does. She made me do a whole ‘yonic opening ceremony’ for my eighteenth birthday, even though she knew I was having sex already. It’s just—I couldn’t tolerate a total asshole, right? Fuck, is it hot in here, or is it just me?” She was still blushing, and there was less than no air movement in the van.
“Yeah you are,” Lawrence said halfway under his breath, like he didn’t mean for her to hear. Somehow, she flushed even more. “Here, I gotcha,” he said at a normal volume.
Then he reached across her to roll her window down manually. His (big, meaty) forearm flexed under the fabric of his hoodie and she felt her eyes drawn to the way his (thick, callused) fingers completely engulfed the little knob on the window lever. She stopped breathing. He wound the mechanism a few times, cracking the window and brushing against her chest with each rotation.
Lawrence seemed to realize what he was doing and yanked his hand back as if burned. “Uh. Sorry. The A/C broke months ago and it’s not an issue I can fix myself, so.” He rolled his own window down.
Meanwhile, Lydia was struggling mightily to maintain her cool. “Y-you’re good,” she managed. “Uh. Okay. Yeah. Not a total asshole.” She squirmed in the seat. God, she needed a distraction. “You. Uh, we want it believable, right?” Lydia racked her brain. “What’s your favorite color?” She cringed. Lame. Lawrence cast an eye over to her but she pressed on. “It’ll be easier to lie if I know more about you.”
Lawrence nodded after a moment. “Fair enough. Pink. What’s yours?”
Lydia fingered the hem of her skirt. “To wear, black. Everything else, red.”
Lawrence hummed. “My turn. Do I wanna know how old you are?”
“Nineteen,” Lydia said.
That made him grimace. “Woof. Uh, that’s…” he held up a couple fingers and squinted at them. “...way less than half plus seven.”
“How old are you?” Lydia asked. Judging by the gray in his hair… “...thirties?”
A huff of self-deprecating laughter. “Yeah. Thirty-three.” His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Got a lot of miles, though.”
Lydia nodded. She honestly would’ve guessed older from the bags under his eyes and the crow’s feet, but she decided not to say that part out loud.
“You know my job,” he continued, “so that question’s out. And you told me you’re bi—me too—so…” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Major?”
“Art. You?”
“It was theatre,” Lawrence said grimly. “Before I dropped out in sophomore year.”
“What happened?”
“Pass.” At her look, he clarified, “Nothing dangerous. I won’t murder you. Promise.”
She didn’t think he would, but… “You don’t have to say anything else. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable.”
Lawrence’s expression softened. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just. Bad stuff. You can probably do the math.”
Lydia took a sip of her iced tea to hide her discomfort. God, here he was doing her a favor and she was bringing up all sorts of (possibly traumatic) memories that he didn’t want to revisit. “I think that’s enough,” she said. Then, timidly, “Do you have any hobbies?”
That question lit up his face, made his eyes sparkle. He started rattling off an entire litany of them, the awkward atmosphere melting away. When they started talking about music, he yanked open the glove compartment and half a dozen cassette tapes of Broadway soundtracks spilled out. Along with three half-empty packs of cigarettes and a couple condoms, but Lydia pretended not to see those.
“You okay with Threepenny? It’s the Raul Julia one from the seventies, not the original, but what I got’s what I got. Good driving music.”
Lydia opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded. Lawrence beamed at her and slotted the worn tape into his car’s cassette player.
She didn’t quite know this translation, but she could hum along to “Mack the Knife”.
By the time they’d cycled through the tape and a couple more, night had fully fallen and the van rattled into sleepy Winter River, Connecticut. “I’m going to text Dad,” Lydia said, and Lawrence nodded. He’d been singing along to most of their tapes in his…well, his incredible tenor voice. Jesus.
She finished typing out a quick note that she was five minutes away and thought, not for the first time, about how she might’ve bitten off more than she could chew with this scheme.
Chapter Text
Delia was the one who answered the doorbell, for which Lydia was thankful. For all of her (many) faults, Delia had always tried to be fair and accommodating to Lydia, and she tended to be a very gracious host. Which meant that when she opened the door to see her stepdaughter standing hand-in-hand with a man nearly twice her age—a man whose entire being all but screamed “bad decisions”—Delia’s look of shock lasted only a moment before she smiled wide and gestured for them to come in.
“Lydia! I’m so glad you made it!” (As if that was ever in doubt, with how militant Dad was about her attendance at holidays, but whatever.) “And you brought a…friend? I wish you’d told me so I could get the guest room ready.”
Lawrence, already in character, shouldered both of their bags and stepped inside after Lydia. He took Delia’s hand to kiss it (wow.) and gave her a lascivious once-over that made Lydia’s face heat.
“You must be Lydia’s sister,” he said smoothly. “I can see that hot little body runs in the family.”
Delia looked up at Lydia, a blush visibly blooming across her chest. Lydia gaped back.
“Delia is my stepmother,” Lydia eventually managed to mumble. She had told him that, right?
Lawrence didn’t even blink. “Oh, wow, you look incredible!” he said. “How old even are you? Thirty?”
Ugh. Delia tittered and slapped playfully at Lawrence’s shoulder while Lydia dragged her hands down her face. She pointedly looped her arms around one of his and laid her head against his bicep. “Delia, this is Lawrence,” she said. “My boyfriend.”
“Your what?” Her dad’s voice echoed against the walls and Lydia turned to find him already red-faced in the doorway to the kitchen. “What happened to that lovely girl you were dating? Michelle?”
“Melissa, Dad,” Lydia corrected with a sigh. “And we broke up after senior year, remember?”
“Heyyyyy, Chucklemeister!” Lawrence drawled. He pulled free from Lydia and strode over to hug her dad, pounding his fists against his back like they were fraternity brothers. Her dad coughed and sputtered, pushing at Lawrence’s shoulders in futility.
“Unhand me!” her dad shouted, and finally Lawrence relented. He stepped back to Lydia’s side as her dad straightened his suit jacket and brushed imaginary dirt from his lapels. “Lydia, explain yourself, please.”
Lydia shrugged. “I already said. This is Lawrence, he’s my boyfriend. He didn’t have anywhere to go for Thanksgiving, so I invited him home with me.”
“But why didn’t you tell us you were bringing someone?” her dad hissed. (Translation: Why is this the first time I’ve heard of this schmuck?)
“Had to clear the shift change with my boss at the diner,” Lawrence said smoothly. He dropped his backpack on the immaculate floor. “Only got approved last-minute.” His arm snaked around Lydia’s waist, pulling her close. “Sorry, baby,” he said, in a way that sounded immediately insincere. Lydia tried not to flinch at the sudden, solid pressure of his arm against her lower back, tried to relax into it, but probably failed.
“Diner? Do you cook?” Delia exclaimed, bustling over and discreetly moving the backpack to the foot of the stairs. She also held out her hand for Lydia’s much smaller suitcase, which Lydia, face burning, transferred over.
Lawrence’s smile shifted minutely, and Lydia felt his posture loosen slightly. “Yeah, and I’m pretty good if I say so myself,” he said, giving Delia a wink. Lydia felt sure that the tomato-red shade coloring her dad’s face must’ve matched her own perfectly. She shifted in her boots, listening to Delia start prattling on about recipes (oh no). She stammered something about the bathroom before ducking out of Lawrence’s grasp. His head turned to follow her but Delia waylaid him before he could take a step.
After freshening up from the trip (and splashing cold water on her face in an attempt to calm herself down), Lydia emerged to see that her family had reconvened in the living room, with Delia holding one of Lawrence’s big hands in her manicured ones. (Dad was nursing a glass of scotch and glaring from his armchair. Perfect. This was working. This would be worth all the embarrassment once he…lost it? kicked them out? Didn't matter. She just needed to get under his skin.)
“I can’t quite make out your life line,” Delia was saying, her lips pulled into a frown and her brows furrowed. “Did you…”
“Burn scar,” Lawrence said cheerfully. “Hot pan.” Sure enough, a shiny pink mark bisected his whole palm. He glanced at Lydia and patted the cushion next to him with his free hand. “Fun conversation starter.”
Delia nodded and leaned closer. “Nice curved head line…” (Lawrence snorted, and Lydia pressed her lips together) “...and that’s an incredibly strong heart line.” Lawrence winked at Lydia like he’d heard this all before. He might have, given that he mentioned renaissance faires and hung out with theatre people. “Hmm…”
“What is it?” Lydia asked, curious in spite of her general disdain for Delia’s woo-woo hobbies. She leaned her chin on Lawrence’s shoulder. Definitely not trying to get a better view of his broad hand. God, he really had thick fingers. No wonder his grip on her when they had held hands outside had felt so strong and secure.
Delia met Lydia’s gaze and smiled, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Oh, nothing. Just that you’ve caught yourself quite the romantic.”
Lydia blinked as Lawrence laughed and pulled her close again, so her tights pressed into the meat of his thigh. “She’s right,” he said, and nuzzled his beard against the top of Lydia’s head.
She hadn’t expected him to be this…touchy. Lydia felt her stomach do about three or four flips.
“What’s your sign?” Delia asked.
Without missing a beat, Lawrence replied, “Aries sun, Gemini moon, Scorpio rising.”
“You know about astrology?” Lydia asked, trying to keep the disdain out of her voice.
Lawrence leveled his warm hazel eyes at her, face contorted into a look of mock confusion. “Babes, I’m bisexual. ‘Course I know about astrology. You mean you don’t?”
“It’s fake,” Lydia said, crinkling her nose.
“Yeah, but it’s fun,” Lawrence said. He shook his head. “I’ll have to take away your gay card.” The hand at Lydia’s waist snaked toward the pocket of her dress. Lydia batted it away and he laughed at her.
“For what it’s worth, I can drive, do math, and cook, so I had to take a loss somewhere,” Lydia said. She felt herself smiling in spite of her anxiety. “Otherwise I’d sweep the gay Olympics.”
That made Lawrence erupt in cackles. Lydia caught Delia smiling mysteriously at her dad out of the corner of her eye. It was probably nothing.
“So,” Delia asked once she had gotten everyone their preferred beverages, “how did you two lovebirds meet?”
“Um,” said Lydia, immediately forgetting what they’d decided in the car.
“It was that Alpha Tao Omega Halloween party, wasn’t it?” Lawrence prompted.
Lydia blinked. “Right! That’s the one.” She caught her father’s expression darkening and affected a hang-dog tone. “I know you told me not to go to any frat parties, Daddy,” she said. She hadn’t consistently called him that in almost a decade, and she knew it always hit a soft spot for him. Next to her, Lawrence inhaled sharply. Probably didn’t think she had it in her to lay it on so thick. “And you were right. Some of the guys tried to slip me something, but Lawrence caught them in the act and got me home safe.” She smiled up at him, leaning into his side a little more.
“Your knight in shining armor!” Delia crooned, clapping her hands together. “Oh, Charles, isn’t that wonderful?”
“Hmph,” her dad grunted, sipping his drink. “She wouldn’t have needed one if she’d listened to me in the first place. I’ll remind you, young lady, that I pay your tuition, and if—”
“—if you think I’m not devoting myself to my education, you’ll stop,” Lydia finished. She only barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. “You’ve only threatened me a million times.”
“Dear, won’t you stop lecturing her?” Delia said. “College is for making mistakes in a relatively safe environment. You can’t tell me you didn’t go to any frat parties.”
“That’s different and you know it,” Dad said. “Besides, I let Lydia make mistakes all the time.” He looked pointedly at Lawrence.
Lawrence smiled and waggled his fingers in a wave. “Hi, yeah, we’re still sitting right here, thank you.”
A timer beeped in the kitchen.
“That’s the lasagna!” Delia said, leaping to her feet. “Lydia, will you grab some place settings for Lawrence?”
Lydia stood, immediately missing Lawrence’s warm arm around her waist, and followed Delia into the kitchen. She set a placemat out next to her usual spot at the table and went about gathering dinnerware from the cabinets as Delia fussed with the oven.
“Are you dating him just to make your father angry?” Delia said, and Lydia nearly dropped the plate she was carrying.
“What?” Lydia hissed. Delia placed the lasagna tray down on top of the oven and turned to face her. She didn’t repeat herself. “No, of course not!” Lydia said, fighting to keep her voice down. How did Delia know already? Had she slipped up somewhere? Lydia racked her brain to remember what exactly she’d said—
“Good,” Delia said. “Because Lawrence seems really sweet, and it wouldn’t be fair to him to string him along like that.”
Lydia blinked, but was saved from having to respond to that by the men entering the kitchen. It looked like her dad had poured himself a second drink and foisted one on Lawrence, too. Lawrence held his glass at his side, seemingly ignoring it.
“That smells delicious, Delia,” Lawrence said. Lydia grimaced and shook her head at him while Delia wasn’t looking. Delia’s lasagna was the furthest thing from ‘delicious,’ and no one deserved to have to pretend otherwise. Lawrence raised his eyebrows at her. “It can’t be that bad,” he whispered as they all sat down.
“Just wait,” Lydia whispered back. Then she jumped as Lawrence took her hand in his and interlaced their fingers. He chuckled and kissed her temple, breathing a soft, ‘easy, there’ against her skin.
And, okay, to Delia’s credit, it wasn’t that terrible. Just bland. Jar sauce and very little seasoning on the protein (Lydia couldn’t tell if it was ground turkey or meatless crumbles). Not enough cheese. Lydia mostly pushed her food around on her plate while Lawrence and Delia talked. She tried to ignore the warm pressure of his hand engulfing hers, heavy on top of her skirt.
He did lean into her more as the meal went on, and by the time Delia was serving them decaf coffee after dinner Lawrence had fully slung his arm around Lydia’s shoulders and pulled her close to him. She tried not to squirm—of the few things she’d inherited from her dad, an aversion to PDA was one of them. Lydia glanced at the drink her dad had insisted Lawrence take earlier, and…it didn't actually look like it’d been touched. He did lift it to his mouth every so often (she definitely wasn’t looking at his lips or his clever, wide smile or anything, shut up), but the liquid level hadn't changed at all.
(She remembered that he hadn't been drinking at the wrap party, either. Huh. She'd have pegged him as a binge drinker.)
After they’d cleaned up, Lydia stretched and yawned, exaggerated. “You tired, honey?” she asked Lawrence, who blinked at her oddly before he seemed to realize what she was doing.
“Oh, uh,” he said. “Yeah, babes. I’m beat.”
“The guest room,” Dad said, glaring at Lawrence, “is the third door on the right upstairs.”
Once Delia had scurried around and grabbed a set of fresh towels, Lydia walked over to her dad and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks for being so accommodating,” she said, actually half meaning it. She was enjoying Lawrence's company and was grateful that her dad hadn't immediately thrown him out, even beyond how that would make it impossible for her 'plan' to work.
Her dad froze for a second before his posture relaxed slightly and he reached up to squeeze her shoulder in return. They didn't really do affection anymore, not since Mom had died. But Lawrence touching her at every opportunity was reminding her how nice it could be.
No. She was supposed to be pissing him off. After extricating herself and offering a quick “good night,” Lydia grabbed her suitcase and headed upstairs. And then sat, perched on the edge of her own bed, waiting to hear Lawrence’s heavier footfalls. He didn’t take long. Before he could enter the guest room, Lydia poked her head out of her door.
“Psst!”
He jolted.
“You’re not actually going to sleep in the guest room,” she said.
Lawrence squinted at her, his entire face a question mark.
“You’re going to wait until Dad and Delia have gone to bed, and once their lights are out, you’re going to sneak in here.”
Lawrence tilted his head. “Do you have a couch in there or something?”
Lydia realized, belatedly, that she might not have thought this through. “No,” she said, “but I have a queen-size bed. And I’m small. We can fit in it together.”
Even in the dim hallway lights she could see Lawrence’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush bright, bright red. “We—o-okay. Sure. Yeah. Got it.”
“It won’t be a problem,” Lydia said, ignoring how her heart was suddenly beating a mile a minute at the thought of being that close to Lawrence for a whole night. God, what did he wear to sleep? “I—I’m going to change,” she said, quickly. “I’ll leave the door unlocked so you won’t need to knock or anything. Just. Come in when you’re ready.”
Lawrence, still looking like a deer in the headlights, nodded faintly.
Lydia took about five deep breaths before unzipping her suitcase and rooting around. Phone charger, check. Toothbrush, check. Pajamas (a thrifted triple XL Cure shirt that came down almost to her knees), check. Underwear -
Wait a fucking minute.
Lydia dug through the interior pockets of the suitcase. Maybe somehow they’d fallen in there? But she found nothing. Desperate, she dumped the entire contents of her suitcase out onto the floor. She’d packed a dress, multiple tops, an additional skirt, more winter outerwear than she’d needed, an Art History textbook, the entire contents of her shower caddy, but no panties.
Lydia sat, frozen, on her bedroom floor and tried not to hyperventilate.
She ran through her options. Hand-wash them and leave them in the sink? That’d still leave her with no clean underwear overnight. And Lawrence might find them in the morning. No. Not possible. Tough it out with dirty—nope, not going to happen. Borrow some boxers from him? Absolutely not (although the thought of what he might be wearing under his ripped jeans made Lydia’s stomach flip). Borrow something from Delia? God, no, never.
Lydia clenched her fists before stripping, mechanically yanking her sleep shirt on, and burrowing as far under the covers as she should go. She could do this. She’d just have to put on her big girl panties (or…not, considering) and go commando for a couple days.
The door creaked slightly. Lydia sat up in bed and almost got out on instinct before remembering her current state of undress and flopping back down, face burning.
“You okay?” she heard Lawrence ask. She snuck a peek over the covers. T-shirt and boxers. Safe. Clothed enough. She’d be fine. (God, the boxers showed off a lot of his thighs. And the dark hair on them. Wow, they looked like they’d be fun to nope nope nope.) He sat on the other side of the bed, making the springs creak.
“Yeah,” Lydia said, sounding strangled. She buried her head in the pillow, not caring that it muffled her voice. “See you tomorrow.”
Chapter Text
Lydia woke to the sound of her bathroom door closing. She felt warm and well-rested, which surprised her on both fronts considering how terribly she slept as a rule, and how often she tended to kick her covers off during the night. And yet, here she was.
She stretched, noticing how Lawrence’s side of the bed was still warm. He hadn’t really struck her as a morning person, but then again, he did work at a diner. She stared at her ceiling, dozing while she waited for him to finish so she could brush her teeth.
A thud against the bathroom door jarred her back to waking. She sat up. Another muffled sound—a whine? Had he hurt himself? She tiptoed across the room and pressed her ear to the door.
“Lawrence?” she called softly. “Are you okay?”
There was a startled yelp, and another thud.
“Shit! Fuck! Uh, y-yeah, babes. I’m fine!” came the reply.
He kinda sounded like he’d run a marathon, but at least he was conscious and hadn’t knocked himself out or something.
“Do you need help figuring out the shower?”
“N-no, thanks! I got it!”
Lydia sighed and walked back over to the bed, sitting on the edge while she scrolled her phone. She heard the shower start up, then the slide of the curtain, and promptly tried to shut her ears to the sounds of the water hitting the tile because she started imagining what Lawrence looked like under the spray. She could practically see all that delicious chest hair matting to his body, the rivulets breaking around dusky nipples and—
Stop it.
Christ, she was beginning to regret telling him that she wasn’t going to fuck him. He was sweet enough; a casual fling wouldn’t hurt anyone. Maybe she’d bring it up after they got back to campus.
In the meantime, she needed to get a fucking grip. If she could just take the edge off… She eyed the bathroom door. It wouldn’t take long, especially not with how keyed up she’d been lately.
Throwing caution to the wind, Lydia laid back in bed and rucked her sleep shirt up a little. A thrill ran through her at the thought of Lawrence catching her like this. She chased that fantasy as she touched herself and felt her face heat at how soaked she already was. Rubbing her clit in tight circles, she imagined Lawrence coming out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his soft hips. She imagined him stopping dead at the sight of her, imagined the flush that would spread across his chest as he stood fixated. She didn’t even have to envision him fucking her; her back was bowing off the bed at the thought of him just watching her with that rapt, almost dumbstruck expression he’d leveled at her a couple times yesterday.
She heard the shower cut off, and that did it. Liquid heat washed over her as her cunt clenched down on nothing. She hurriedly rearranged her shirt and pulled the covers back over herself, picking her phone up just as the bathroom door opened. Lawrence emerged amongst a wash of steam, dressed in his same sleep clothes, but with wet hair.
“Uh, I’m done,” she heard him say, voice sounding kind of strained. Hopefully he hadn’t heard her. That would be so embarrassing. “I’m gonna change if you wanna…”
Lydia waited until he was turned toward his backpack before darting into the bathroom and shutting the door. No sense flashing the guy. The shower steam cleared her thoughts, made her remember where she was, what was going on today, what her goal was in bringing Lawrence here. He’d left her shampoo bottle open, she noticed, and frowned, before realizing that his hair would smell like her and forcing herself to ignore the aftershock that curled through her stomach. Stop it, she thought.
By the time she’d dried her hair and was putting on makeup, Lydia had rolled the tension out of her shoulders and taken several deep breaths. She needed her hands steady to draw on her eyeliner, after all. She swiped on her usual makeup, mechanically moving through her tinted moisturizer, her smear of dark eyeshadow, her lip balm, before cracking the door. She made sure to hold the towel she’d wrapped around her tight as she peered inside.
No Lawrence. Oh, God, had he already gone downstairs? Had she taken too long? Lydia grimaced and dug through her suitcase, sliding into the black dress she’d packed and the net tights she’d worn yesterday. No underwear. God, she was such an idiot. She’d be distracted all day.
As her boots hit the hallway carpet she smelled…coffee, which made sense, and some kind of pastry, which didn’t.
“Good morning, Lydia!” Delia trilled from the kitchen. She’d tied a surprisingly utilitarian apron on over one of her patterned wrap dresses and was cooking in fucking heels. Lydia mustered a grumble in response. “There’s coffee cake warmed in the oven if you’re hungry. I put your father in charge of the parade.”
As she sat down at the kitchen counter, blinking, a steaming mug of coffee slid into view.
“Morning,” she heard Lawrence’s gravelly voice rumble from her right side. Lydia jumped. She hadn’t even noticed he was there. She turned and blinked, only to see his warm eyes looking at her all soft. Wow, he was really a good actor.
She stared down at the coffee, still too confused to do much of anything.
He noticed her hesitation. “Aw, shit, I forgot how you take it. Sorry, babes–”
“No,” Lydia interrupted him. She picked up the mug in both hands. “No, I take it black. You got it right.”
The worst part? She wasn’t even lying. And the coffee wasn’t burned or anything. Strong and warm and necessary. “Thanks,” she mumbled, after taking a huge gulp. Lawrence—who she noticed was wearing a worn green flannel button-up that really brought out the goldish tones in his eyes—beamed at her.
The coffee cake wasn’t bad either. She saw Delia had cut herself a piece already, which meant it must’ve been vegan, but Lydia couldn’t taste any difference. “Did you make this?” she asked, genuinely curious.
Delia shook her head, red bangs bouncing. “I wish I did. Some of your father’s friends recommended a bakery in town. They’ll be here this afternoon—you can thank them.”
Guests. God, of course this would turn into some kind of spectacle. Lydia frowned, and Lawrence seemed to notice. He wound his arm around her waist. This time she barely even tensed up when he touched her. “C’mon, Lyds,” he said, his mouth way too close to her skin. She could almost feel his beard tickling her cheek. “Don’t wanna miss all the toy commercials.”
“Yeah,” she mumbled, and grabbed her mug as she got up to follow Lawrence into the family room. Her father was already ensconced in his recliner, watching basketball. Lydia’s frown redoubled.
“Where's the parade?” she asked. Her stomach plummeted when she saw her father grimace.
“Lydia,” he began, and she could tell by his tone that he was about to say something she wouldn't like, and knew it. “I have to pay attention to this game.” He waved a legal pad that was covered in his neat, blocky lettering. “The Haslams are joining us for dinner, and they’re going to want to talk about it.”
“But,” Lydia replied, “it's tradition.” It was one of the few traditions they'd kept since Mom died, and all the more important for it. The idea that her dad would just throw it away without a second thought? For basketball? No—for business. It was a slap in the face, and one she hadn't prepared for.
Mortifyingly, she felt her eyes welling up and blinked rapidly, looking at the ceiling. Lawrence hovered at her elbow, glancing between her and her father like he expected someone to explode.
Her father sighed. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead. “Isn't it time we leave those things behind us? It's been three years.”
Lydia inhaled sharply. "Exactly," she said, disbelieving. "It's only been three years."
Her father frowned and didn't take his eyes from the game again. "I am not going to argue with you about this. Can't you just watch it on your phone?"
Her face grew hot, her vision blurry. No, no. I am not going to cry in front of him. Instead of answering, she spun on her heel and all but ran up the stairs. When she made it to her room, she slammed the door behind her and threw herself onto the bed, curling up into as tight a ball as she could manage.
She didn't become a sobbing mess, but it was a near thing. Instead she kind of just…leaked into her pillow and felt sorry for herself.
A while later—but not so long she'd managed to stop crying—a soft knock sounded at her door. She took a breath to yell at whoever it was to go away, but before she could, Lawrence spoke.
“Hey,” he said quietly, “if you wanna be alone I'll leave, but I think I found a livecast of the parade on my laptop? It's got a pretty big screen. I know it's not the same. I just—”
Lydia sat up, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. Lawrence was hunched over in the doorway, holding the biggest, most beat-up laptop she'd ever seen. The thing must have been at least a decade old. A bunch of stickers from bands she’d never heard of were clinging to its battered plastic casing for dear life.
And there, on the cracked-ass screen were the too-cheery faces of the parade hosts. They hadn’t really even missed anything.
“Thanks,” Lydia said. She let out one last sniffle and patted the space on her bed, right by her side.
They weren’t watching the parade through the official channels—someone had been smart enough to stream it on Twitch under the guise of “Just Chatting” and hadn’t been copyright struck yet—and the biggest crack went straight through Al Roker’s face when he was trying to make canned conversation with one of the balloon handlers…but it was the parade, and she wasn't alone.
A cadre of skinny Broadway actors struggled to dance in the blowing wind. Lawrence cackled as one of them tripped over his character shoes. “Serves them right for doing a Nirvana jukebox musical,” Lydia said, snorting. “If I believed in Hell, they’d be going straight there.”
Lawrence nodded. “They gotta bring back the classics. Kander and Ebb. Get real horny with it.” His left hand had settled dangerously near the small of Lydia’s back. The warmth radiating from it had Lydia’s skin prickling. She let her spine relax (one of the only useful things Delia had ever taught her, seriously) and that brought his palm in contact with her dress. Lawrence stiffened, but then visibly loosened up, leaning back against the haphazard pile of pillows.
She grabbed her mug from the nightstand and just…let herself enjoy the company.
Time evaporated, just like that, until they managed to get to Santa Claus closing out the parade.
And then, of course, the doorbell rang downstairs.
“Fuck,” Lydia said. “Last chance to fake my own death.”
“I can get some ketchup,” Lawrence said. “To. Ya know. Make it more convincing. Really splatter it up.”
Lydia snorted. “I think I’ll be okay.” She reached down to squeeze his hand. Lawrence blinked and stared down at her small fingers entwined in his. “Hey. Thanks. For, um. This.”
“A-anytime,” Lawrence said, his hazel eyes wide.
After ducking briefly into the bathroom to check her makeup (thankfully, it wasn’t so smeared as to be unsalvageable), Lydia grabbed Lawrence’s hand where he was waiting nervously by the door and dragged him downstairs. By the time they made it to the landing, he’d slipped more firmly into his douchebag-boyfriend role, as evidenced by his swagger and the way he threw his arm around Lydia’s shoulders. Game on, thought Lydia.
The early arrivals turned out to be the Maitlands, who owned the hobby store in town (and had been her only port in the storm that was life after her mom died). Delighted, Lydia bounded forward to hug Adam, then Barbara, in turn.
“Delia didn’t tell me you two were coming!” Lydia cried.
“Well, we didn’t want to ruin the surprise,” said Adam, grinning.
Barbara cupped her face in her palms, making a show of turning it this way and that. “My goodness, look how you’ve grown!” Barbara said. “College is doing you good!”
“College isn’t the only thing doing her good, if you know what I mean,” Lawrence said under his breath.
Barbara’s smile froze on her face as she turned to face him. “And who is this?” she asked. She used the same tone one might use when asking which dog had shat in the house.
Lydia blushed. “Adam, Barbara, meet my boyfriend, Lawrence!” she said. “Lawrence, these are the Maitlands. I used to hang out at their hobby store constantly.”
“She’s like the daughter we never had,” Barbara said, showing all of her teeth as she shook Lawrence’s hand.
“A regular comedian, I see,” said Adam darkly. “At least he’s not a Republican, am I right?”
Lawrence gasped in mock hurt. “Of course not!” He waited until Adam relaxed a fraction before adding, “I’m a Libertarian!”
“Adam! Barbara!” Delia swept in before Adam could recover. “So glad you could make it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” said Barbara. She hefted a cake carrier. “And we brought pie, as promised.”
The group dispersed, with Adam going to greet Lydia’s father and Barbara trailing Delia into the kitchen, chatting amicably.
“A Libertarian?” Lydia asked, giving Lawrence a sideways look.
“What? Too much?”
Lydia frowned a little. “No, it’s just…” Just what? Just that she’d hoped Lawrence would make a good impression on the Maitlands? She shook her head. “Nevermind, you’re doing great.” She bumped his shoulder with hers and smiled up at him.
Lawrence winked down at her. “Hey, I ain’t bad at acting. Just out of practice.” He ambled over to Adam and looked, for one second, like he was going to grab his ass, but seemed to think better of it and launched into some kind of monologue.
“Oh, great, Lydia, could you help? We’ve got another pie in the car,” Barbara said, her eyes narrowing at whatever was happening with her husband. She yanked Lydia out into the chill Connecticut air before planting her hand on her shoulder. “How old is he?” Barbara hissed.
“Thirty-three,” Lydia said, without missing a beat. Barbara grimaced and sucked her teeth. “But he’s really, really nice and funny and –”
“And too old for you,” Barbara said grimly. She threw open the trunk of her minivan and pulled out two more pie dishes. “Hold this.”
“I mean–” Lydia began, frowning.
Barbara held up a finger, cutting her off. “I know, it’s not my business, I’m not your mother, but…” She blew out a breath, puffing her cheeks. Lydia thought she could hear Barbara counting under her breath. “But. We worry. Especially with you so far from home.”
Lydia scowled. “Connecticut isn’t really home,” she said. “We only moved here after Mom died. New York’s home. College is technically closer to my real home than this house.”
Barbara looked like she was struggling for the right words to say. “I don’t want to smother you,” she finally said. “I—As long as you’re happy, and not in danger.”
Lydia let her shoulders untense. Perfect timing, because a new car had pulled up in front of the house. The Haslams, another handsome middle-aged couple who Lydia vaguely remembered from some miserable holiday party or another, looked like they had some kind of terrible 1970s Jell-O salad. Great.
Barbara, always nicer than Lydia could be and with infinitely more social battery capacity, went over to greet them, while Lydia took the opportunity to shrink back into the house. She set one of the pies down on the counter.
“So, like, if you’re worried about cross-contamination, you can use miso to make a pretty good vegan gravy,” she heard Lawrence saying. Delia, eyes full of stars, nodded. Somehow her stepmom had roped Lawrence into mincing onions. He’d rolled up his sleeves and thrown on one of her aprons (which…well, it was kind of a good look on him, with his flannel) and had maybe even washed his hands?
“I’d never thought of that!” Delia gushed. She patted Lawrence’s hairy forearm with her manicured hand. Lydia squirmed, feeling uncomfortably warm all of a sudden. “Thank you so much for this, by the way. I didn’t think about how the acrylics would work with mincing!”
“Eh, I’d just be doin’ the same thing at the diner anyway,” Lawrence said. He wasn’t even looking at his hands, the chef’s knife flying over the cutting board. “Next time, you can pre-chop a lot of the stuff, you know? Put it all in a gallon zip bag. Hell, shove that shit in the freezer and knock it out a couple weeks ahead of time. Then you won’t have to fuck up your nails.”
Delia giggled. “Uh,” Lydia said, loud enough to make them both jump. Lawrence, to his credit, didn’t miss a beat in his knifework. “I, um. Pie.”
“Oh, does it need to be refrigerated?” Delia asked. She pivoted smoothly on one heel. “I can move the cheese board down a shelf to make some room.”
“Thanks,” Lydia mumbled. Her face burned. She wished she could shrink into her boots or crawl back upstairs. A loud noise thundered overhead. “Wait, is that a helicopter?” Whipping around to glare at Delia, she added, “You invited the Deans?”
Delia popped her head out from behind the refrigerator door. “Your father insisted,” she said apologetically. “But I sat them at the other end of the table from you. And I hear his fifth wife is very nice.”
Lydia saw Lawrence mouth Fifth wife? out of the corner of her eye, but otherwise he trained his eyes down on his knifework. Outside, the drone of the helicopter cut off. Delia finished putting away the pie and straightened.
“I don't like him either,” Delia said with a sigh. “And neither does your father. But the fact is sometimes he has to go along to get along. And like my guru, Otho, always says: ‘Opinions are like waistlines. No one has to know what yours look like unless you're going to sleep with them.’”
“Fine,” said Lydia, crossing her arms. “But if he jokes about marrying me again, I won't be held responsible for my actions.”
“Duly noted. Now, do you want a job so you don't have to go out there and socialize?”
Lydia blinked. “I—that would be great, actually. How can I help?"
The next few hours disappeared in a whirlwind of activity. Lydia peeled vegetables while Lawrence continued to man the cutting board. He regaled them with myriad stories that had Lydia laughing so hard her stomach hurt. More than once, Lydia caught Delia looking between the two of them with a thoughtful expression.
Beyond the kitchen door, people continued to arrive until the buzz of conversation was more of a dull roar. Both Adam and Barbara wound up in the kitchen before too long, which was just as well, because they really needed some more hands to take care of mashing the potatoes and throwing the salad together.
It was warm and chaotic and crowded and too loud, and yet…Lydia found that she didn't hate it. It wasn't the same as when Mom was alive, of course. Nothing could ever touch those memories. But this was good in a different way.
When the turkey was out and finally carved, they all cheered. Lawrence grabbed Lydia around the middle and, before either of them realized what he was doing, he gave her a triumphant kiss. It was fast—just a brief press of his chapped lips to hers—but Lydia felt it like a lightning bolt down her spine. As Delia went out to announce that dinner was ready, Lydia stared up at Lawrence, breathless.
"Sorry," he mumbled, blushing furiously. "I got a little carried away."
Notes:
Thanks to @SecretFrog for the Otho-ism!
Chapter Text
"'Scuse me, sexy," Lawrence said, hip-checking Adam as he sidled into the dining room.
Adam nearly squawked—hopefully Lawrence hadn't succumbed to the impulse pinch his ass. Lydia stood over the sink, staring at her burning face in the reflection of the metal.
Lawrence had kissed her? On the mouth? The sound of the various guests bustling around faded to a dull hum. She'd asked him to pretend to be her boyfriend… She couldn't be upset with him or fault him for literally doing what she'd asked him to do. And given the reactions from everyone involved, nobody suspected any funny business.
Delia handed Lydia a bowl of cranberry sauce—the fancy kind with real cranberries chopped up. "Could you set this down by Adam's place?" she asked. "You'll know which one it is. There are name cards."
"Right," Lydia said. She walked into the dining room with the bowl. People were already starting to sit down, Dad at the head of the table, Delia at the foot. Lawrence was standing by a chair to Dad's right, thumbs tapping on its back.
Delia blinked. "Oh, hold on, wait a minute." Her lips moved as she counted the chairs. "Lydia, would you mind getting a chair for Lawrence? I forgot to set out an extra one this morning."
"It's cool, Deedee," Lawrence said, winking at Lydia. "We can share."
Just when Lydia thought she'd gotten herself under control, too. Lawrence did look very comfortable to sit on. She could curl up in his lap and tuck her head right under his chin. And his chest and stomach looked so nice and soft…
"I'll be right back," she squeaked. She didn't miss the vein throbbing in her father's temple as she set the cranberry sauce down.
Once she'd squeezed Lawrence in to her left side (and it was indeed a tight fit, her left thigh smushed against his right one) and everyone else had taken their places, Delia clinked her butter knife against her cut crystal wineglass.
"Friends, family, dear guests," she trilled. "Thank you all so very much for coming to our humble gathering."
"There's like two too many forks for 'humble,'" Lawrence whispered in Lydia's ear, nudging her in the ribs. She hid her snort behind her hand.
"As my guru Otho would say if he were here instead of leading a mindfulness cruise in the Bahamas," Delia continued, "'when you don't give thanks, you don't get thanks.' So I'd love for us to go around the table and have everyone say something they're thankful for this year.'"
She looked to her right, where Maxine Dean, bedecked in a lavender gown and way too much makeup for three in the afternoon, nodded and popped her gum. "Microneedling," she said, and didn't elaborate.
Maxie Dean slung his arm around her shoulder. "I'm thankful for pre-nuptial agreements," he said. Maxine made a playful(?) sound of shock and smacked him lightly in the chest, before cooing and kissing him on the cheek.
Ugh. Gross.
Mr. Haslam said he was ecstatic about State's team this year, while Mrs. Haslam glared and said she was grateful for their son, who was off getting some kind of pre-med degree. The couple next to them were thankful for their new yacht and their upcoming trip to Greece.
Then it was Dad's turn. He said something boilerplate about spending the day with friends and family. Whatever.
Lawrence's chair screeched as he pushed it back to stand up. He swayed on his feet and grabbed Lydia's shoulder to steady himself. His wine glass was empty, but he held it up anyway. (What had he done with it? She hadn't seen.)
"I," he began dramatically, "am thankful for Lydia. We may not have been dating very long, but it's been long enough to know what a rock star she is. She's so fucking smart—sorry, Chuck—and funny and beautiful. I'm telling you all now, I am going to marry this girl if I have anything to say about it."
He planted a sloppy, wet kiss against her cheek and sat back down. The table was quiet. Lydia was blushing so hard she felt like she'd set the tablecloth on fire.
Then Maxine clapped her hands together and said, "Awww, young love!" and everyone broke out into chuckles of varying levels of awkward.
Lydia dared not even glance at her father.
Instead, she bumped her shoulder lightly against Lawrence's and mumbled that she was thankful for him too, the weirdo.
She didn't hear anything of what anyone else at the table said, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Delia bade them all to eat and suddenly a platter of turkey was thrust into her field of view.
"Oh!" she said. She blinked and took the plate, robotically serving herself some dark meat and passing it on to Lawrence. He leaned over to her as he speared an entire breast.
"You okay there, Babes?" he breathed in her ear. "I know you're more of a techie, but you might want to tone down the deer-in-headlights look."
She nodded vaguely. "Yeah, um. Give me a second. Serve me a bit of everything except the green beans, please?" Excusing herself to the bathroom, Lydia took a moment to wash her hands and dab some cool water on the back of her neck. She shook out her wrists, jumped up and down a couple of times, and glared at herself in the mirror.
"You're hopelessly in love with a loser," she said sternly, pointing at her reflection. "And delighted to hear that he wants to marry you." She allowed her small shudder at the thought of marriage to disperse, then rolled her shoulders back and returned to the table with considerably more poise than she left it. She kissed the top of Lawrence's head lightly as she reclaimed her seat, glad to see he had not only done as she'd asked, but portioned everything in neat scoops that barely touched each other.
Lydia grabbed Lawrence's hand. "Thank you, this looks great," she told him. He squeezed her hand back.
Frankly, she hadn't expected Delia to cook an actual turkey. She still avoided the white meat (the dryness made her taste buds rebel) but the thigh meat tasted shockingly…moist? Horrible word. But true. She didn't even need to drown it in gravy. There was flavor. A minor holiday miracle. Then again…she spotted Mr. Haslam helping himself to a portion of some kind of vegetable-looking loaf dish. Their house did have a double oven. Perks of money, she guessed.
Lawrence wasn't letting go of her hand, either. He eventually moved both of their hands under the table and settled them on his leg. (Now that was a juicy thigh, Lydia's brain said, completely unprompted, and she shoved a bite of candied sweet potato into her mouth and ducked her head down. God, she'd probably turned redder than the cranberry sauce.)
"You cool?" Lawrence asked. "Choking? Please tell me you're not faking an allergic reaction or having a real allergic reaction—"
"'m fine," Lydia mumbled. She nudged her leg against his to reassure him. That seemed to work. Lawrence, at least, looked a little flushed too, even though she was sure he hadn't been drinking, whatever he'd done with his wine notwithstanding.
"So, Lydia," she heard Maxie Dean say. Her back tensed, her left hand squeezing Lawrence's right tighter. "You've grown up very nicely."
There was a moment of perfect silence during which Lydia ground her teeth so hard she heard her jaw creak.
Lawrence turned his head, slowly, toward the foot of the table. Maxie was twirling his empty rocks glass between his ringed fingers. Her Dad, on Lawrence's other side, was pressing his lips into a thin line, but said nothing.
Lydia managed an awkward laugh, wracking her brain for something to say that wasn't a screech of rage. Her grip on her fork tightened. She'd told Delia she wouldn't be responsible for her actions…
"Yeah," Lawrence said. "Absolutely a grown up. Like your wife. Who is right there." He nudged his head toward Maxine.
Adam started coughing like he'd inhaled water and Mrs. Haslam tittered behind her napkin. Maxie Dean gaped like a fish, opening and closing his mouth, completely at a loss for words.
Maxine leaned back so far in her chair that it looked to be in danger of toppling. Enough for her to make eye contact, briefly, with both Lydia and Lawrence and mouth "thank you" with a surprisingly genuine expression.
Lydia doubted anyone had shut down Maxie Dean, ever, much less in public. Her chest warmed in a way that definitely could not be blamed on heartburn. So much for being helplessly in love with a "loser".
Thankfully, the rest of the conversation skewed boring. Lydia wished she knew Morse code so she could communicate with Lawrence just by tapping in code on his fingers. She never really talked much at these things, anyway. But he seemed to be holding his own. Adam had gone on some kind of screed about acrylic versus enamel paint as it applied to detailed model painting and it kinda looked like Lawrence was following along—or at least pretending.
Dessert came out. Lydia, stomach still knotted from anxiety, didn't serve herself a plate. "Nope," Lawrence said. He'd served himself slivers of each kind of pie. He sliced off a bit of the chocolate cream pie—her favorite—and held it up to her mouth on his fork. "Come on, babes."
Lydia took the bite. The chocolate cream melted on her tongue and her eyes met Lawrence's as he slid the fork out from her lips. They stared at each other as she chewed, savoring the rich flavor. When she swallowed, his gaze flicked down to her throat, watching the movement.
Then "One Week" by Barenaked Ladies (what?) started playing from Lawrence's pocket.
"Shit, sorry, sorry!" he said, fumbling for his phone. He squinted down at the cracked screen, frowning. "I should take this. Could be the diner." He put it to his ear as he stood and began walking to the foyer. "Hello?" A pause. Then, "How the fuck did you get this number?"
Chapter Text
Lydia was on her feet and following Lawrence before she could think twice about it. Her father said something in protest, but she didn't hear it. She reached the front door moments after Lawrence closed it.
With her hand on the doorknob, she finally paused. What was she doing? Lawrence had sounded upset, but what was she going to do about that? Lydia pressed her ear to the door. Lawrence's voice was raised and clipped and…wavering?
Lydia opened the door and slipped out into the growing dark beyond. The front porch light was out, so the only light was muted from the curtained windows. Lawrence was leaning against the back of his van, phone to his ear and his head tipped back. Lydia snuck out across the lawn.
"Ma, please—" Lawrence was saying.
The voice that answered him was tinny through the phone's speaker, and somehow raspier than Lawrence's was. "I can hardly believe that even you could be so ungrateful that you'd block your own mother's number! After everything I've done for you!"
"You're the one that kicked me out of the house!"
"That was for your own good and you know it. How else were you going to learn anything? I couldn't just let you keep sucking at my tit the rest of your life."
Lawrence sighed. "Christ, are you drunk? Nevermind, doesn't matter. I'm kind of in the middle of something, Ma."
"In the middle of something? What, did I catch you jacking off? What could you possibly be doing on Thanksgiving that means you can't take a call from me?"
Lydia leaned against the van's side door. With the way the other cars were situated, she could just barely see Lawrence in one side mirror of Adam's hatchback. He looked small. Curled in on himself.
"I'm visiting a friend, okay?" Lawrence said. "She invited me."
"Oh, sure," said his mother. "And you had nothing to do with that decision. What was the angle this time? Did you make her feel sorry for you? It's not like it's hard. You're so desperate for someone to love you, you act like a damn fool."
The van groaned as Lawrence sat on the bumper. "Ma, please. Why did you call?"
"I can't want to talk to my son on Thanksgiving?"
"I don't know why you'd start now."
"Fine. I'm just trying to make a connection with my one and only son, the one I gave up my entire life to raise. Do you know I—"
"You gave up a very prestigious position at a law firm so you could stay home with me," Lawrence recited, head bowed. "I know, Ma."
"That's right," his mother said. She broke off into a hacking, hoarse cough. "And now my good-for-nothing son won't even give me the time of day! What if I was dyin', huh? What if I was diagnosed with lung cancer and wanted to tell the only person in my life that I had less than three months to live?"
Lydia felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. The world tilted violently on its axis.
"What!" Lawrence shouted at his phone. "Oh my god, Ma, are you being serious right now? Are you—? Is it—?"
A biting cackle floated out from the speakers. "Jesus Christ, of course not you idiot! I'm just saying what if! No wonder you flunked outta college; you can't even understand a hypothetical. How are you even my son?"
"Wait, so you…aren't dying?"
"And give you the pleasure? Fuck no."
Lawrence yanked the phone away from his ear and stabbed at the screen with a finger, ending the call. Shoving it in his pocket, he then covered his face with his hands and took a great, shuddering breath. After a moment, he slammed his fist against the bumper and yelled, "Fuck!" loud enough that Lydia felt sure everyone back inside could hear.
The tightness in Lydia's chest grew unbearable. She'd figured he was lonely, had inferred some kind of hostility between Lawrence and his parents, but she hadn't expected anything like this. Not the sheer venom she'd heard coming out of the phone.
Some people's problems, she realized, were worse than hers.
Lawrence had helped her when she'd felt so, so shitty throughout the day, and this was what he'd been going through. Lydia stepped forward, her boot crunching on the gravel. Lawrence's head whipped up. His eyes had gone red-rimmed, swollen. She could see the whites around his hazel irises. His breathing sounded shallow, rapid.
"How much —" Lawrence began. then his breath caught. His hands white-knuckled the rusted bumper of his van.
"Most of it," Lydia said, honestly. Lawrence barked out a humorless laugh.
Lydia took a step closer, slowly. Lawrence flinched away like he expected a blow, and Lydia felt the motion like a stab in the gut.
Tears beaded up in Lydia's eyes. She blinked them away. This wasn't about her. "Your mom sounds like a cunt," Lydia said, spitting out the last word.
Lawrence's head tilted, like he hadn't been expecting to hear that. Then he snorted. "She really is, ya know?" he said. He inhaled another deep, shaking breath. His big hands patted down the pockets of his jeans, fishing out a crumpled packet of cigarettes.
"Forgot a lighter, shit, hold on…" Lawrence wrenched open the door of his van and slid into the driver's seat. The engine turned on with a belch of exhaust, and Lydia watched as he fiddled with the archaic cigarette lighter (how old was that car?). He switched the engine off and practically fell back out of the van.
Lawrence took a long drag and visibly relaxed. He looked over at Lydia, startling like he'd forgotten she was there. "Oh, hold up. Where are my manners. You want one?"
Lydia shook her head. "Suit yourself," Lawrence said. He was practically chewing on the filter. Probably a nervous habit. "It's. I don't really smoke anymore, except." He gestured with both arms, shrugging. "Except for emergencies."
He took out his phone again, mumbling to himself, and scrolled on the cracked screen until his finger came down to smash a red button. "Blocked. Okay. The witch is dead, for now."
"Uh huh," Lydia said. She saw him shivering in his flannel, the hand holding the cigarette trembling. "Are you going to be okay?"
Lawrence thought about it. The smoke puffed out of his nostrils. "I mean, she can't throw anything at me through the phone, so I'm fine, I guess."
Lydia winced.
"I've had worse!" Lawrence continued, eyes widening. Like that was supposed to be comforting. "Like, she didn't sound that drunk this time. And she can't do anything like change the locks. I don't live with her anymore."
Lydia couldn't keep listening. She marched over to Lawrence and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into the tightest, fiercest hug she could manage.
"It's freezing out here," she said, her face buried in the curve of his neck. She felt him swallow against her cheek. His hands slowly reached up to settle around her waist. "Please, come in. I…" I hate that you went through this. I want to punch your mom for talking like that to you. "…I think you could probably use a glass of water."
After a minute, Lawrence nodded, his beard scratching her temple. "Okay," he said, his voice choked up. "Okay. Not a bad idea."
Lydia led them back inside, pausing in the foyer. The sound of boisterous conversation was coming from the dining room; she could hear her dad telling one of his favorite golf stories (featuring a 9-iron and one very unfortunate frog). Lawrence forced a smile, preparing to dive back in, but it was wan and tight. Instead, Lydia steered him to the stairs as she shot a quick text to Delia explaining that Lawrence wasn't feeling well.
She closed and locked the door to her bedroom behind them, then gently pushed Lawrence to sit on the edge of the bed. The mini fridge by her desk was still stocked with bottled water and Dr. Pepper, so she grabbed one of the former and twisted the lid off before handing it over.
(Delia had gotten Lydia that fridge her sophomore year of high school, when it seemed like everything her dad said made her want to scream. She'd spent a lot of high school sequestered up here, refusing to talk to anyone. Delia bought her the fridge and kept Lydia well-stocked in drinks and small snacks. Looking back on it now, it might have been the only reason she hadn't wasted away during those years. Trail mix and protein bars did not a balanced diet make, but it was better than starving herself because she couldn't stand to risk having to talk to Dad.
Having now caught a glimpse of what Lawrence's home life must have been like, Lydia felt a rare rush of gratitude for her stepmom. She resolved to thank her when she got the chance.)
Lawrence took the bottle from her and drained it in one go. The plastic crinkled and warped as he gulped it down. When he finished, he gasped for air. Lydia took the empty bottle, throwing it into the small recycle bin she kept next to her nightstand, and sat next to him. Probably she should have given him some space, should have sat at her desk, or on the floor, or hell, left even an inch of space between their thighs, but she didn't.
"Feel better?" she asked.
Lawrence flopped back on the bed. "Yeah, a bit," he said. He scrubbed his hands down his face. "We don't have to hide up here all night on my account. I should be good to terrorize your folks some more."
It was another deflection, an attempt to get the spotlight off of him—the real him. Lydia didn't interrogate it, choosing another tact instead. "Nothing we could do would beat staying up here and letting my dad think we're fucking," she replied. She laid down next to him, propping herself on an elbow so she could look at him.
"Oh?" Lawrence cleared his throat. He was staring fixedly at the ceiling fan and wouldn't meet her gaze, but at least he didn't look like he was about to pass out any more. She could practically see the gears churning in his head, turning over the things his mom had said. As if to prove her right, the next thing out of his mouth seemed to startle him: "Should we make some noise? Put on a show?"
His eyes went wide and he coughed like he was choking on his own spit. "Uh—I mean—I'm not trying to—"
Lydia felt a little thrill course through her despite herself. It was certainly an idea, if an insane one. She imagined her dad trying to maintain composure in front of his guests while rhythmic grunts and moans filtered down through the old house. She licked her lips.
Without warning, the vision morphed into something different. A faceless old hag sat at the dinner table, complaining to everyone who would listen about her good-for-nothing son.
Lawrence was still backpedaling, holding his hands up in front of himself, pleading. Lydia shushed him with a soft hand over his mouth. He shut up immediately.
Taking a deep breath, Lydia closed her eyes and let out her most convincing moan. "Oh, Lawrence!"