Chapter Text
All Tommy sees are the backs of heads, passengers all lined up in a row waiting in place. The man in front of him has dark sweat circles around his armpits and smells heavily of BO. Tommy sees sweat trickling down the base of the man's neck, starting a new sweat circle on the collar of his shirt. The man rocks on his heels in impatience as he stretches out his neck to peer around the crowd in front of them, as if that would make the line go faster. It doesn't, of course. They are still moving at a snail's pace, waiting on the elderly passengers up front to finish grappling with the stairs.
“Fuckin hell,” The guy in front of Tommy mops his brow with his shirt, “ Get a move on, we're dying back here!” The man shouts, receiving dirty looks from everyone else in the plane.
Tommy just bows his head in embarrassment, wishing the guy would just keep his mouth shut. The feeling of judgemental eyes darting in his direction made his skin crawl. Just look away. Nothing to see here. Just some asshole who's acting too big for his britches.
The last of the elderly people exit the plane, making the line move much faster. Tommy shuffles his feet forward, attempting not to step on the heels of the man in front of him as he shimmies he and his duffle bag through the tight aisle. Tommy squints his eyes as they're met with bright Florida sun for the first time in his life. There's a uniform line of palm trees separating the plane track from the road. Tommy had never seen real palm trees before.
He almost trips on the steep airplane steps but grips the handle in time to not faceplant. Right. Look where you're going Tommy.
The guy in front of Tommy puts on a big show of stretching his back and shoulders as if he'd been trapped in the plane for days rather than hours. Other passengers were walking straight past him, ignoring the man's antics that had already grown old during the short two hour flight.
Tommy follows suit, hoping he can put the whole prime forsaken flight behind him. He wishes his mom hadn't shipped him off in the first place. He doesn’t see why he has to go live with his uncle for the summer. He should be with his mom. He should be there to help her, not a thousand miles away standing on dirt that was too dry under a sun that was far too bright.
The cool blast of an AC greets Tommy as he steps through glass double doors. His arms pepper with goose bumps at the sudden change in temperature. A cool shiver runs up his spine. It feels like a bad omen.
The flow of passengers make their way over to the baggage claim. The airport bustles around them, people walking past in every direction scrambling to get to their next destinations. A conveyor sluggishly revolves in a half moon delivering the luggage to where their restless owners await. Tommy joins the crowd by the baggage claim, keeping his eyes peeled for black luggage bags tied with red bandanas. His mom had tied them on before he left. She'd been anxious that he would lose track of his bags if they didn't have something to set them apart. She'd always been a bit of a worry wart like that.
Tommy catches sight of one of the bandanas coming his way, so he readjusts the duffle bag on his shoulder readying himself to take the luggage off the conveyor. Tommy stretches a hand out to grab the handle.
Someone else's hand beats him to it, grabbing his luggage and pulling it towards them instead. Tommy stiffens in surprise as a familiar voice speaks close to his ear. “Let me get that for you.”
Tommy twists around looking up at the owner of the voice, or at least, attempting to. Tommy's uncle was a lot shorter than he last remembers him, making him practically eye level with Tommy.
Uncle Phil stands in front of Tommy with an awkward smile plastered to his face. His hair is longer than Tommy remembers, pulled back in a short ponytail. There is several days worth of stubble covering his chin, and his eyes look tired. Not the sort of tired that someone acquires from days without sleep, but a deeper tiredness. A weariness of the soul.
Phil was wearing green scrubs as if he'd come to pick up Tommy directly after work. He drops Tommy's luggage down at his side before taking a good look at the boy.
Phil looks Tommy up and down like adults often do when they haven't seen a kid for years. His uncle recycles the same cheesy line everyone uses, “Wow, you've gotten so big, Toms. You're almost as tall as me.”
The old nickname sounds strange coming out of his uncle's mouth. The name belongs to a different time, a different decade. Using it now just feels… contrived.
Tommy doesn't bother with a response.
Phil hardly seems to notice as he spots Tommy's next bag of luggage. He uses his free hand to pick that one up too, brushing past Tommy’s arm to grab it. The contact left his arm feeling tingly. “Is that all of them?” Phil asks.
Tommy simply nods his head.
“Well,” Phil struggles to check his watch as he holds both the luggage bags upright, “We better be off then. Your mom sent me your prescription, so I thought we could pick it up on our way home tonight.” He checks in with Tommy, almost as an afterthought. “If that's okay with you?.”
Tommy just shrugs noncommittally.
Phil takes that as an affirmative. “Alright mate, follow me. We can catch up in the car, I’m hoping to get home at a somewhat reasonable time. I have Techno cooking dinner for us, so we’ll eat first thing when we get back, okay?”
Phil leads Tommy through the airport, walking with long quick strides, an unspoken urgency in his steps. His uncle has probably been gone all day. Tommy sours at the thought. He probably would be home already if he hadn't had to take a detour to pick up Tommy.
They make it to Phil’s minivan and Phil presses a button on his keys to open the trunk. Wordlessly Tommy grabs his luggage from Phil, loading it into the back of the trunk by himself. He keeps hold of his duffle bag though, holding the bag gives Tommy a certain feeling of security. Phil closes the trunk for him and they both walk to separate sides of the minivan to get to their designated seats. Phil turns the key in the ignition and they start driving.
The first part of the drive is silent, the both of them lost deep in their thoughts. Uncle Phil was probably thinking about his mom. Tommy was too, but he was also thinking about his friends. They’d been making summer plans with each other all school year that they had all been really looking forward to. Plans that had been dashed by Tommy’s mother a week ago over a lukewarm dinner. Well, at least for Tommy. Selfishly, Tommy hoped his friends would stay inside all summer. He hated the idea of being excluded from all the happy memories and inside jokes that would be made while he was away.
Halfway through the drive Phil must’ve remembered the comment he’d made inside the airport about catching up. “So uh, your mom told me you're fifteen now? That means you’re going into your sophomore year of highschool right?”
Tommy resolutely stares out the car window.
If Phil is disheartened, he doesn’t let it show. “My boys are both twenty-one, I think you might remember them? Techno and Wilbur. They’ll both be going into their junior year of college this fall.”
Tommy’s lips stay firmly pressed together.
Phil clears his throat, “So, do you have any favorite subjects in school? I was always fascinated by biology in highschool, and look at me now. ” He gives a forced chuckle taking his eyes off the road for just a moment to glance at Tommy.
Tommy doesn’t react.
Once upon a time, the thought of spending a summer with his uncle and cousins probably would’ve excited Tommy. He would’ve loved to have a one on one conversation with Uncle Phil, it would’ve made him feel special. Now it didn’t make him feel anything except for slightly annoyed.
Phil takes the hint after his fifth unanswered question, and he keeps his mouth shut until they get to the CVS. Phil leaves the keys in the ignition so Tommy can keep the AC going while he runs inside to get Tommy’s medicine. Tommy watches him go as Phil awkwardly jogs to the doors, reaching them at the same time as some old lady. He holds the door open for her before sliding in behind her. The door closes behind them.
Tommy brings his knees up to his chin as he waits, not caring that he was letting his street shoes touch the spotless polyester. He scrolls through his phone as he waits though his mind isn’t really in it. It wanders, old memories resurfacing, not fully intact after years of corrosion.
There was one in particular that stuck out from all the rest, probably one of the last Tommy had made with Uncle Phil before his aunt got sick and they stopped coming to the family reunions.
Tommy had been playing by himself since there weren’t any other kids his age at the get together. He’d found a swing set to play on, though it had different seats than the usual ones at the playground back home. They were made out of plastic instead of rubber. Tommy had sat on it anyways, contenting himself by kicking his feet back and forth and building momentum. He hadn’t been holding on well enough. Tommy had gone too high, and he’d slipped off his seat, tumbling into the dry dirt underneath.
At first he’d been completely winded, staring into the cloudless bright blue sky. His mouth filled with the thick taste of iron and he wasn’t able to get enough air in. And then, once he’d refilled his lungs, he let it all out. And he couldn’t stop letting it out in one ear piercing, continuous wail.
It didn't take long for an adult to find him. Phil. He picked Tommy up off the ground, dusting the dirt off his clothes. He grabbed his hand and led him into the house while Tommy cried the entire way.
Phil took Tommy into the kitchen that was already full of countless adults Tommy didn't know the names of. He picked him up by the armpits, setting him down on the counter next to some open cereal boxes. A wet washcloth was handed to Tommy to press against his sore lip while uncle Phil waited for him to calm down.
“Can I take a look?” Phil asked after the majority of the crying had faded, replaced by weak hiccuping breaths.
Tommy nodded his head.
Uncle Phil gently eased the blood soaked rag off of Tommy’s lip, holding it between his thumb and his forefinger so he could take a closer look. He hissed out sharply. “Yikes, we’re lucky you didn't bite straight through, Toms.” He must’ve felt Tommy’s lip tremble underneath his fingers because he grimaced. “I’m kidding.”
Phil lets go of Tommy’s lip, but he doesn't hand back the wet rag. By that point, the bleeding had already eased up. Tommy swished his tongue in his mouth a couple of times, feeling the brand new holes in his bottom lip.
“Feeling any better mate?” Phil asked, rubbing Tommy’s shoulders soothingly.
Tommy sniffled, “N-n-n-no.”
Uncle Phil sighed giving Tommy a pitying look, “Next time you gotta make sure you’re holding on real tight. Okay?” Tommy nodded his head as his lower lip throbbed. “Now let's get some ice on that. It’ll numb it up real good.”
Tommy avoided the swing for the rest of the trip, opting to stay by Phil’s side instead. Tommy didn’t know where his mom had been that weekend, probably by one of the countless drink coolers, but she hadn't found out about the accident until they’d gotten back home. She’d tutted over healed over skin and had planted a kiss on his swollen lip. He'd pushed her off of him complaining that he was too old for kisses. Tommy didn't feel that way anymore.
The driver side clicks open as Phil reenters the vehicle, placing a paper bag in Tommy’s lap as he sits down. He puts the car into reverse.
“Now let's get us home.”
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The sun is starting to lose its glow when Tommy and Phil finally pull into Phil’s driveway. Uncle Phil’s house is painted a robin egg blue with a white porch that is decorated by two identical rocking chairs. The home looks as if it hasn’t been updated since at least the 90s.
Tommy’s assumption is proven correct when he sees the inside. Upon opening the front door, Tommy is met with a coat rack that is fitted with alcoves on the bottom to store all their shoes. In favor of the warmer weather, the coat rack is arrayed with beach towels instead of winter jackets. The wall is covered in a muted floral wallpaper while the floor is tile up until halfway down the hallway where it randomly switches to gray carpet. There’s a doorway to the left that leads into the living room while walking straight forward would lead them directly into the kitchen.
“We’re home.” Phil calls out as he toes off his shoes upon nudging them towards the other shoes instead of putting them away. He wore those stupid compression socks underneath as if he were pushing sixty instead of being freshly forty-three.
The house is silent in response and Phil frowns. “Wilbur?” Nothing. “Techno?” Tommy can almost hear crickets chirping in the background. Phil looks back at Tommy, as Tommy toes his own shoes off in the doorway. “I’m sure they just lost track of time. Dinner should still be in the kitchen, it's shepherd's pie, Tech’s specialty.”
Tommy just nods his head following Phil into the kitchen. Phil immediately grabs two plates off the counter that are covered in saran wrap. He throws the plastic in the trashcan before shoving them in the microwave. While Phil is distracted, Tommy sits his duffle bag down on a chair before looking around.
The flooring is made up of the same tile from the entryway; it was probably once a nice shell white, but time had covered it in scuff marks and mystery stains. The cabinets are all made of the same maple wood while the counters are a pale white, covered in old mugs and disregarded mail. There is a gas stove against one wall with a fridge placed right beside it. The fridge is covered from top to bottom in a whole host of different magnets. Most of them look like the kind you would find in a souvenir shop, clunky and colorful. The kitchen table is covered by a plastic tablecloth, four different colored wooden chairs pushed in around it. Green, blue, pink and… black. The chair seems out of place in the otherwise vibrant room. Tommy claims it as his own, feeling a sort of kinship with it. Neither of them are where they belonged
The microwave’s beeps are loud and shrill as it signals that it has in fact finished unevenly heating their meal. Phil takes their plates out, setting one in front of his seat, (the green) and the other infront of Tommy’s along with forks he’d grabbed out of one of the drawers. Then Phil walks to the fridge, opening it up to reveal a shelf full of sodas. He grabs a diet mountain dew for himself. “Want anything?”
Tommy shakes his head.
Phil shrugs, shutting the door before walking the soda back to his seat. “Well, if you’re thirsty, you can drink from the tap. Cups are in the cabinet on the upper right side.” And with that, Phil takes his first bite of shepherd's pie, seeming to zone out after the first couple chews. Tommy gives his own shepherd’s pie a nudge with his fork before glancing at the analog clock above the stove. 7:32. Tommy looks back at his food and his stomach churns. He really isn’t hungry.
There’s the sound of thudding coming from the other side of the house, like someone was stomping down stairs, before a figure walks into the kitchen holding a mug in one hand and a laptop in the other. The man wears sweatpants and a tank top, long pink hair thrown in a braid. He didn't seem to notice Phil or Tommy, too busy reading whatever was on his laptop screen and listening to whatever was playing on his headphones. They looked like the expensive kind, probably sound proof. He walks over to the counter already overflowing with dirty mugs, and places his own next to the growing pile. He almost walks back out of the kitchen without so much as glance, when Phil stops him with a wave.
The man flinches, almost dropping his laptop in the process. He straightens up, pulling his headphones off his ears and giving Phil a sheepish look, “Sorry Phil, I didn't hear you come in.” His eyes fall to Tommy who still hasn’t taken a bite of his dinner. He just fiddles around with his fork, prodding along a pea with its prongs. The man’s eyebrows furrow slightly, as if he isn't quite sure how to react to the new teenager.
Uncle Phil zeros in on the laptop as he takes another bite of pie, “Doing homework over summer vacation?”
The man just shrugs, “I wanted to go over some material my professor recommended to me before the start of the new term.” Phil doesn’t look happy by the answer and the man sighs, “Don’t worry old man, I’m not overworkin’ myself. It’ll only take a couple days max, then I’ll enjoy summer break.”
Phil looks skeptical but he doesn't press further. He changes the subject. “Where’s Will? I was hoping we could go over a few ground rules together with Tommy. Maybe play a boardgame?”
The man’s face sours at the mention of his brother and Tommy realizes with surprise the man in front of him is Techno. The pink hair is new. So are the muscles.
“Wilbur’s still out with his surfing buddies.” Techno says tightly, “He’ll probably be out late again tonight.”
The wrinkles by Phil’s brows become more pronounced. “I guess we’ll have to postpone it till tomorrow then.”
Techno shifts on the balls of his feet, “Yeah,” His gaze falls back on Tommy and he attempts a smile, though it comes out as more of a grimace, “It’s good to see you again Tommy,” His eyes slide back to Phil apologetically and he points to the laptop in his hand, “If you don’t mind I’m going to finish this tonight, soooo…”
Defeated, Phil shakes his head, “That’s fine.” Techno takes that as his cue to leave, and Tommy hears the steady tread of the man returning to the second floor. “Guess it’ll just be you and me tonight, Toms.” Phil says with a tight smile, “Maybe I can give you a grand tour of the place after dinner.”
Tommy shrugs his shoulders in response.
Phil finishes dinner before Tommy has even taken his first bite. Phil excuses himself to the restroom for a few minutes giving Tommy enough time to locate the bin and scrape his food into it. When Phil gets back, Tommy’s empty dish is resting in the sink while Tommy scrolls on his phone at the table.
The house tour doesn't take long, probably because the house wasn't that large. Well, Tommy supposes it was large compared to his mom’s apartment, but it definitely isn't bigger than his friend Tubbo’s house. His dad is loaded.
Tommy had seen the majority of the first floor simply by walking through the front door. There was of course the kitchen and the living room but besides that, there was a laundry room connected to the kitchen and a bathroom and coat closet connected to the mudroom. Past the living room was another short hallway, it had three doors. One led to Wilbur’s room, which looked like a wreck, and another led to another closet. The last door led to the room Tommy would be staying in.
Tommy stands in the doorway staring at the compact space. There is a bed pushed up against a drab wall. The sheets that cover it are neutral toned, as if Phil were too scared to buy a color Tommy didn't like, so he forwent colors altogether. There is a small window high above the bed. Tommy notices it doesn’t have any curtains. The rest of the room is filled with a dresser and a nightstand. They’re both wooden, though their stains don’t match.
Tommy feels Phil hovering behind him, waiting for some type of reaction. Tommy steps in, setting his duffle bag on the bed before plopping down beside it. He looks at the room from a new angle, spotting a spiderweb in the corner of the ceiling that hadn't been visible from the door. Then his eyes catch on the closet. Phil notices.
“Sorry about that, mate.” Phil stares at the same spot as Tommy. The closet is still cracked open, revealing some of the things stored inside. There is a sewing machine shoved in a box as well as a plastic bag filled with scrap pieces of fabric sitting on top of it. “This used to be Kristin’s craft room and uh… we never got to sorting through her things. Life got in the way, you know?” He shifts in the doorway, “Just uh, tell me if it gets to be a bother. I’ll move it.”
Tommy nods.
Phil shows him the rest of the house. There are stairs in the living room that lead up to the second floor which is comprised of another three rooms. Another bathroom, Techno’s bedroom, and then Phil’s bedroom. Then Phil led Tommy back to the minivan where they each picked up one of Tommy’s suitcases and brought them back to Aunt Kristin’s old craft room.
Phil sets his down by the door. “Well, I’ll let you get settled then. I’ll be in my room if you need anything.”
Phil closes the door behind him as he leaves.
Tommy stands there, staring at the door, his luggage still lying on the floor. He feels a sort of numbness wrapping around his chest as he sits back down on his bed. The old sewing supplies still peek at him from their spot in the closet. Tommy feels his jaw clench at the reminder.
He doesn’t belong here.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
The sun begins to set behind the robin egg blue house, the sky easing from gentle pink to hazy purple. The sound of waves can distantly be heard crashing against the beach shore as the moon sleepily tugs at the sea. Crickets chirp and frogs croak signaling the approaching night.
The occupants of the blue house separate themselves with partitions of plaster and drywall. They sequester themselves hoping the distance would grant them peace.
One of the occupants is a young man with long pink hair. He sits on his bed with his laptop resting on his thighs. His legs are crossed at the ankles on top of the comforter as the artificial light bathes his face. He scrolls through one article after another, pausing every so often to write down a note or two in a composition notebook. His phone sits next to him, an email glowing on its screen, a reply from a professor. Extra coursework to fill the dull summer months. It will get the young man ahead, bringing him closer to his goal.
In the room parallel, an older man lays on a mattress made for two. It's an old mattress, yellowing with age and losing shape in places, that should've been replaced years ago. But there's still an impression left in it from where another body once lay. The man lays on his back staring up at the ceiling knowing he should get some sleep. His eyes never close. He just lays there. Staring up into the darkness.
Below the man, a blond boy lays on his side in an old sewing room. He can't quite get comfortable on the bed, it's too firm. Probably a last minute purchase from IKEA, he thinks. The boy has a phone propped up in his hand scrolling through a photo album labeled “bench trio”. Three boys laughed at him from the pictures, mischievousness in their smiles. The blond boy sniffles, not bothering to wipe the tear rolling down his cheek.
Outside the blue house, the hazy purple transitions to inky black. The streets are empty save for a lone armadillo waddling down the asphalt road. A brunette appears a few paces away stumbling down the sidewalk with an uneven gate. He wears swim trunks along with an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. His feet are bare, sandals forgotten somewhere in the sandy dunes. The brunette staggers over to the blue house ignoring the front door and heading straight towards a window. He uses his long arms to push the window up before attempting to crawl through it. He only manages to get the first half of his chest through before he topples in with a dull thud as his soft body hits the hard floor.
The brunette groans at the poor landing clutching at his now aching head. Still, the pain feels better than the aching of his heart.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟
Tommy jerks up in his bed brushing his forearm over his face. What was that just now? He'd heard a loud thump from the other room followed by whispered curses. It sounded like it had come from across the hall… Wilbur’s room.
Hesitantly, Tommy sits up in his bed, throwing the sheets off his lap. He opens his door walking the two steps to Wilbur’s, letting his hand hover over the door handle. His heartbeat quickens in his chest as he stares at the door handle. He can hear a soft scuffling on the other side and a couple more hissed profanities. The voice was familiar, belonging to a boy with rosy cheeks and curly brown hair. It reminds him of how guitar strings felt under his fingers and the way the boy would guide his hand, feather soft, to create a dulcet melody. Though his memories of the boy were few, he remembers how much he’d admired his older cousin. He’d sort of been looking forward to seeing Wilbur again, feeling a sort of emptiness when he realized Wilbur probably hadn't felt the same. He hadn’t joined Phil to pick him up at the airport. He hadn't even made it home for dinner.
Tommy’s fingers curl around the doorknob before he lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he’d been holding and yanks open the door.
Wilbur is kneeling clutching his head in his lap, his messy brown hair obscuring his face. He jerks up at the sound of the door, his dazed eyes locking on Tommy’s. His eyebrows screw up in confusion as he looks from Tommy to the window back to Tommy again.
“ Shit,” Wilbur murmurs to himself, “ Wrong house .” He’s back on his feet within seconds, launching one leg out to straddle the windowsill.
“ Wilbur wait,” Tommy blurts out before his cousin could fall through the window a second time. The man stiffens at his name. He looks back at Tommy with a puzzled expression on his face, which was a bad decision since it makes him lose his grip on the window, causing him to topple back into the room a second time. His head hits the floor again, and Wilbur lets out a groan as his hands fly back up to cradle his badly bruised cranium.
“ Fuck.”
Tommy stays frozen in the doorway as Wilbur quickly recovers pulling himself back up off the ground. He looks unsteady on his feet and his eyes won't focus. Tommy wonders if he’d given himself a concussion. “ Who the fuck are you?” Wilbur’s words slur together as he squints at Tommy in the unlit room.
“It’s Tommy.”
At first, the words don’t seem to register, Wilbur just stares at Tommy dully with his lips slightly parted. Then recognition flashes across his face and his eyes widen, “Toms?” The nickname feels more natural coming from Will’s mouth than uncle Phil’s. Wilbur had come up with the nickname after all.
Tommy nods his head, though the question was probably rhetorical.
Wilbur absently rubs his head where he had hit it. “Wait- I thought you were supposed to be coming tomorrow? Isn’t it Friday?”
Tommy shakes his head, “S-s-saturday.”
“Shit.” Wilbur curses again, “Phil’s going to be pissed.” Wilbur stumbles over to his bed, sitting on it and burying his head back in his hands. “Fuck me.”
Tommy stays awkwardly in the doorway not knowing what to do. He wonders if he should just leave. He should’ve just stayed in the sewing room, even if it had felt suffocating in there.
Wilbur looks up at Tommy, dropping his hands, “Are you going to come in? Or do you need an invitation?”
Tommy shrugs his shoulders.
“Well… you can come in.”
Tommy hesitates before taking a step into the room. Wilbur pats the spot next to him on the mattress and Tommy takes a seat. His cousin’s breath smells heavily of alcohol. Wilbur is probably drunk, Tommy realizes. He scoots away a bit, putting a bit of space between the two of them. Wilbur doesn’t seem to notice.
They sit in silence as Wilbur stares at him, taking in the change that time had wrought. “You got taller.” He points out the obvious.
Tommy just shrugs again.
Wilbur looks different too. He looks older. A slightly taller build, and a sharper jawline are some of the more prominent changes. But there are other changes too, ones Tommy isn’t sure he likes. Wilbur is thinner than Tommy remembered, his ribcage a bit too visible under his skin, as well as paler. His chin is covered in a couple days worth of stubble and his eyes have the same too tired look as Phil’s. It sort of makes him look homeless.
“You’re awfully quiet.” Wilbur notices, “I remember you being a lot more… screechy.”
Tommy shrugs-
Wilbur's hands settle on Tommy’s shoulders, keeping them in place and stopping the motion, “Stop that, or you’re going to make yourself fly away.” He jokes lightly. “You don’t have to be so tense, it’s just me.”
“S-s-so-sorry”
Wilbur sighs, “Don’t apologize. You’re fine, just…” He tapers off at the end before groaning loudly and running his hand through his messy hair, “Fuck it, I’m too drunk for this.” He glances back at Tommy, “Could we pick this back up again tomorrow? Preferably in the afternoon.”
Tommy nods his head standing up off the bed.
“Good… good.” Wilbur pauses as if he was just struck with something. “Wait, Tommy?” Tommy looks back at Wilbur, halfway to the door. “Could you do me a favor? Don’t tell Techno or Phil about this, okay? They tend to… worry.”
Tommy nods his head again, shutting the door on his way out. Out in the hallway, the sewing room door is slightly ajar, just the way Tommy had left it. He waits a few seconds before stepping through the door and closing it behind him with a click. The sheets are pulled away from the bed in a tangled mess and his phone lies right where he’d left it by his pillow. Tommy slips back under the covers grabbing his phone and turning it back on. The photo album was still open
Tommy keeps scrolling.