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"How did you know what she needed?" Marcus' green eyes studied him, sharp and filled with something unreadable.
Thomas shrugged. "Women get weepy. She wanted a hug. I have a sister, Marcus. "
"No. Julie was ready with the hugs. You took her away, took her outside. " Marcus put his hand on the car latch when Thomas would have reached for it. "It's locked anyway. Tell me. "
Thomas sighed, gave him an irritated look. "Type A's don't break. They might shed a few tears at a funeral, but they immerse themselves in the arrangements, changing names on the bills, all that shit. Then something will trigger it. Feeling a man holding them, the way they used to be held, but not. . . Being held by a man's different than being held by a woman. Right?" He gave Marcus an ironic look. "That's what she needed. That was the trigger. "
"Like your mom. "
When a muscle flexed in Thomas' jaw, his expression going impassive, Marcus knew he was treading in that area that was always the red zone for them. So he was surprised when Thomas responded.
"Yeah. It happened to her. She was trying to get something down from the second shelf. I'd come into the kitchen and she said, 'Robert, will you get that?' And that was it.
It scared the shit out of Rory and Celeste, but I just picked her up off the floor, sat down with her in my lap and rocked her, let her cry it out. She held onto me tight, buried herself. . . " His voice wavered slightly, then he cleared his throat, looked away. "It wasn't. . . she wasn't confused, you know. She knew I was her son. "
"Don't be stupid," Marcus said. "I know. "
Thomas nodded, a very controlled movement, his gaze holding Marcus' with forced steadiness. "That's how I knew. For Ellen. " It made more sense to Marcus then. The meshing of the son with the memory of his father. It had added to the burden and yet deepened the bond, given Thomas the insight and strength to reinforce his stubborn resolve. Marcus might have observed it gave his mother another weapon to hold against her son, her vulnerability more powerful than the sharpest words, but he didn't.
Instead, he made a noncommittal noise, unlocked the door. "You okay?" Marcus asked, when Thomas didn't move.
"Yeah. I was actually thinking I should be asking you that. " But Marcus could see the picture that Thomas' words had painted, that was playing behind his eyes now. It had been the pivotal moment. The moment when Thomas hadn't been just the surrogate. He'd become the head of the family. There was nothing, no matter how much he wanted or needed for himself, that would make him abandon that. If he did, Thomas would abandon an essential part of who he was, a part that made him the man Marcus loved so much.
He couldn't make Thomas choose between him and his family any more than he would have a year ago. He'd known it subconsciously, watching him with Ellen.
So that was that.
"I'm fine, pet. C'mon. " Marcus cleared his throat. "Let's hit one of those little hole-in-the-wall diners on the drive back and get a late dinner. " When he passed his knuckles alongside Thomas' jaw and squeezed the back of his nape, it was almost the gesture of a brother. But as he backed off, Thomas was sure Marcus had been about to do something more. His body had drawn taut, anticipating it.
He knew enough about Marcus' moods to know not to reach after him. He stood there, though, undecided until Marcus got to the other side. He needed to say it to someone. Maybe Marcus would turn away from it, but then again, maybe he was the only one who could understand. Because just maybe it was true, that Marcus did love him the way love was supposed to be. Even though that didn't change anything.
"Marcus?"
"Hmm?"
Thomas met his gaze across the top of the low sports car. "I really miss my dad. He didn't. . . you know, understand me, but he did. . . Love me. " His throat closed up tight and suddenly there was something huge welling up in him, something he tried to stomp down, but it sprang leaks, made it hard to breathe.
Like one of his attacks, but not. Almost worse.
"Never mind," he managed.
When Marcus came around the car, Thomas shook his head, backed up. He was disoriented enough by what he was trying to control in himself to bump into the door.
He fought it back as Marcus put his arms around him without a word. Thomas gripped him, held onto the broad back, smelled the combination of smells that were Marcus, felt the soft stuff of his shirt he was crumpling, his fingers opening and closing.
"You held out a lot longer than your mother," Marcus said. "Let it out. " The words were a quiet push over the edge of a cliff. But Marcus put his hands to the back of Thomas' head, leaning to sandwich him between the grounding points of his body and the car. When Thomas would have pulled back, tried to fight it down, fight it away, thinking that's what he had to do, Marcus held on, telling Thomas he wasn't getting away. Didn't need to.
Because Thomas' mother, Celeste and Rory had needed him, Marcus was sure Thomas had avoided any opportunity to be overwhelmed by the painful emotions, thinking if he kept them at bay long enough, they would simply go away.
Thomas' shoulders heaved as he choked on a sob. It came forth in a sudden, strangled burst, the rough tearing sound of a man's grief, so much more hard-won than a woman's easy tears.
"I was here, pet. I was always here. Even if you told me you needed me just for an hour, for this, I would have been there. " Marcus spoke gruffly into his hair, holding him tighter. "Why is it so fucking hard for you to believe I love you?" Thomas didn't reply, but Marcus didn't expect him to do so. He held him, the parking lot, the lights, even the breeze against their bodies just vague impressions as the storm of emotion passed. He wasn't surprised that, like the violence of a summer squall, it didn't long.
As Thomas pulled back, he ducked his head away to swipe at his eyes, embarrassed. Marcus offered him a Starbuck's napkin from the car with a half smile.
"Take it, you stubborn ass," he ordered, caressing his cheek. "Do you want me to hold it to your nose and tell you to blow, like Ellen?"
