by Van Barrett
Rust read that message over and over for fifteen minutes. He wasn't sure what to say.
At least this time, Clay had gotten the details right. Especially the part about Rust hating his guts.
Still, he didn't know what to say.
Then, without warning, that more 'loving and forgiving' part must have taken over control of his finger-tips, because Rust could only helplessly stare as he tapped out and sent a reply that read simply:
“26B.”
That was his suite number.
Rust stared at the text he'd just sent.
Welp. There's no turning back now.
***
Five minutes later, there was a very gentle knocking at the door—quiet enough that a normal, healthy, non-concussed person would probably disregard it entirely.
Knock, knock.
Rust was thankful Clay hadn't pounded his fist into the door—that would've wrecked his goddamn head and pissed him off bad enough that he probably wouldn't have answered the door.
Slowly, Rust rose to his feet and made his way to the door. He unlatched the dead-bolt, and after inhaling a deep breath, turned the knob.
Rust kept the chain-lock on and peeked out through the doorway.
Sure enough, it was Clay that stood outside the door.
Rust didn't know what to think or do or say. Instead, he hid behind the door, using the darkness as a shield. Rust stared and tried to reconcile this ten-years-later iteration of Clay with the one he'd once known.
Clay was still clearly in-shape. But at the same time, he was noticeably trimmer than he was during their hockey days. He wasn't the massive, rippling blue-line monster he'd once been during their hockey days.
That made sense, although it still came as a bit of a surprise to Rust. Retired from hockey, Clay had obviously cut back on the grueling workout sessions, and stopped gorging himself with those 3,500+ calories per day to build muscle mass.
But Clay still had the large frame that had once supported all that muscle. Tall. Long arms and legs. Broad, masculine shoulders.
Actually, as Rust continued to stare at his old friend, he started to think that this version of Clay made more sense. He didn't look so … under pressure and stressed out. He carried less muscle, but less baggage, too.
“Rusty?” Clay asked, sounding meek and unsure. He squinted into the void. Rust knew Clay couldn't see him—his eyes hadn't adjusted to the abysmal darkness that was Rust's suite.
Clay took off his ball cap and clutched it against his chest. Last time they'd seen each other, Clay's hair had been so brown and healthy—and it was still healthy looking, but not so wholly brown anymore. Instead, he had flecks of silver that glinted in the light. It suited him. He looked wise and distinguished now.
Father Time had obviously treated Clay well. That pissed Rust off—it might have been easier and more satisfying to see a haggard, balding Clay, who lugged around a paunchy beer belly.
Instead, older Clay looked somehow refined. Like a river-stone that had been weathered by the flow of time. All his rough edges rounded and smoothed. All his faults polished and sparkling.
But as much as it pissed Rust off, paradoxically, it also came as a relief that Clay had aged well and kept his good looks.
“Rusty?” Clay asked again, holding his hand over his eyes like a visor. “I can't see you, buddy. It's so dark in there.”
Seeing Clay again, Rust realized one other thing—he had seen Clay during the Columbus-Dallas game.
That meant Clay was the reason Rust got concussed.
Clay caused this pain.
All of it. In so many ways. And not just the pain from the concussion.
Without saying a word, Rust shut the door in Clay's face and locked it.
“Whew,” he sighed to himself.
After all those years, it felt good—really good!—to return the favor.
To reject Clay without being seen or heard.
To leave him wondering what the hell had just happened.
Rust watched the aftermath through the door's peep-hole. Clay stood in the hallway, looking a tad perplexed, but also equally understanding. He knew in his heart what he'd done, after all—surely he knew this would likely happen? Surely, he hadn't expected Rust to welcome him back with open arms?
Clay milled around for a few minutes. He took a peek at his phone every so often. No doubt he wondered what he should do—if he should text or knock again or just fuck off and go away forever. The latter seemed to come so easy to him, after all.
And then, after ten minutes of waiting around, Clay frowned, gave a disappointed shake of his head, and walked off.
Rust grinned. He kept staring through the peep-hole, long after Clay had disappeared.
Until he stumbled back from the door and moaned like a mortally wounded animal, compressing his temples between the palms of his hands. The light from the peep-hole had pierced at his eyes, and the brightness had stabbed deep into his optic nerve. That kicked off the tired routine—the rhythmic, throbbing pressure that irradiated through his whole face and skull.
Another sickening migraine had been triggered.
That's when the realization hit Rust:
Holy shit. It didn't hurt a second ago when Clay was out there.
Normally, Rust couldn't bear the hallway lights without his sunglasses—and even those didn't help much. The light from those awful, incessantly buzzing fluorescent tubes seared into his eyes and ate at his brain like battery acid.
But somehow, in the nervous excitement of the moment, he'd forgotten to put them on before he answered the door and stared at Clay.
And he hadn't felt a thing.
Holy shit. Holy shit. What could that mean? What do I do now?
17
Reunion
– Clay –
Clay handed his hotel room key-card to the front desk girl. He tried not to visibly wince or audibly groan when she told him the total for one night's stay.
At least he's staying some place nice and not in some dingy motel, Clay thought to himself as he handed over his credit card.
It was more money than Clay had ever spent on a hotel room for himself, that was for sure. But it had been worth a shot.
And, in the end, it was a good gamble—because Rusty was in room B on the 26th floor, even if Clay hadn't actually seen him.
But it had to be him. He was sure of it. The same phone number, the texts, the fact that he answered the door but didn't actually say anything … sure, it was strange and vague and not one-hundred percent confirmed to be Rusty.
But it all added up, in context.
Especially the part about living in total darkness. Jesus, that poor guy. Clay couldn't see a thing in that hotel room. It was as dark as a moonless night and not a star in the sky.
Clay snatched his receipt, threw his duffel bag over his shoulder, and walked through the front doors. When he made it to his truck in the parking lot, he paused to take one last look back at the hotel. Standing tall over the hotel was an observation tower called the Reunion Tower. The lean and tall tower had a bulbous sphere that sat atop it, like a big bead of dew on a single blade of grass. Apparently it was an open-air sphere, where you could look over Dallas' skyline.
He'd hoped he might be able to go up there with Rusty, and look over the city of Dallas. But after seeing the darkness of that room, he knew it was a pipe dream. And the fact that Rusty didn't want to talk to him really spoiled things.
“Some reunion,” Clay muttered to himself with a crushing disappointment.
He swung the truck's door open. He'd hoped that whole 'Reunion' thing was a good omen, a sign, but clearly it wasn't.
No, that's not quite true, he thought to himself. It was a reunion, after all. It wasn't profound and it didn't go the way he wanted, but it didn't change the fact that it was a reunion.
He slid into the driver's seat and shook his head.
Sure, he was disappointed. But he couldn't blame Rusty. He knew he'd caused him pain.
He'd hoped Rusty might be able to understand the reasons why he'd done it, and forgive him someday … but he also knew that day might never come.
Some wounds just cut too deep.
Clay put the key in the ignition.
“See ya, old buddy,” he said to himself as he fired up the engine.
And then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Clay wrestled it from the pocket of his jeans, expecting it to be some business relating to the horse farm, but his heart started to race when he saw it was from that old familiar number. The message read:
“Wait. Come back.”
Clay stared at it, his brow creasing like furrowed earth. He thought the odds were high that Rusty invited him back just to make an even bigger jackass out of him—but that was fine. Clay knew he deserved it and he'd gladly look like an idiot if it meant a chance at making it up to Rusty.
He shut the truck off, ran back inside and hurried up to the 26th floor.
***
Knock, knock.
Clay, barely able to contain his smile, knocked gently again. He'd read the stories—how guys with concussions were caused indescribable pain by loud noises and bright lights.
The deadbolt clicked free. And this time, Clay heard the noise of the door-chain being removed before the door opened.
Clay's breath hitched as the door slowly opened.
“Come in,” the familiar voice said.
It really was Rusty! Clay's giddy heart drummed with an excitement, a fondness, a nostalgia—oh man, all the years they had yet to catch up on!
“Rusty, man! Rusty …” Clay chuckled as he stepped forward, into the darkness. “It's so good to see--”
Rusty interrupted him with a sharp hiss.
“Shhh!”
Clay lowered his voice, and his shoulders drooped like a scolded dog.
“Sorry. Sorry, Rusty, I--”
“Don't call me that.”
Rusty was short, his tone snappy and serious. And just as quickly, Clay's growing excitement was lopped off, nipped at the bud. He wondered if this reunion of theirs might still be going south after all.
Clay swallowed and tried to look around the dark hotel suite. His eyes couldn't make out a damned thing! It was so eerily quiet, too—like all the life in the room had been snuffed out.
Dead, dark, and quiet. It didn't seem like a very good environment to try to recover in, that was for sure. Clay might not be a doctor, but he knew that much.
“Rust,” Rusty said sternly.
“Wha'?” Clay mumbled, confused.
“Rust. No one calls me Rusty anymore and I hate that nickname.”
“Oh. Er. Why?” Clay asked. He felt off-guard and unsure sure how to proceed.
“Because that was ten years ago, Clay. I'm not a kid anymore.”
“Sorry.” Clay held up his hands—though he wondered if Rust could even see his gestures in this darkness. “Rust it is, then.”
Rust sighed, sounding annoyed but relieved at the same time. “… Thanks.”
“Yeah, whatever you want, man.” Clay scratched at the back of his head. “So …?”
“I didn't want to answer the door,” Rust said. “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I'm not sure how to feel about any of this. I guess you should tell me what you're doing here.”
“I uh--” Clay stumbled, searching his heart for the right words.
Why am I here? He had to ask himself. Suddenly he wasn't sure anymore. He felt like all of his reasons failed to make any kind of sense.
“Well?”
“I … I heard you weren't well.”
Rust's retort was lightning quick.
“And what, you thought you could make me better?”
“N-no,” Clay stammered. “I mean … maybe? I don't know, Rust.”
It still felt weird calling him that. Clay wasn't sure it'd ever feel normal. Regardless, Clay realized that Rust was the one in control here, the one who had questions and demanded answers. He knew their fate was in Rust's hands.
“You were at the game,” Rust said suddenly.
“Which game?” Clay asked reflexively, and regretted it immediately. Of course he knew damn well which game Rust had meant—he just feared the implications of that: that Clay was the reason Rust had gotten injured.
“You know which one. Don't play dumb.”
“Sorry. You're right. Yeah, I—I was there.”
“I saw you. In the crowd.”
“I thought you did. I just—I couldn't believe it. I mean, how the hell? Out of all those people, you suddenly zeroed in on me. And then, ugh, Bente—it all happened so fast. I tried to warn you, Rusty—”
“Rust.”
“Right. Rust. Sorry. Damn, that's hard for me to remember. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Yeah, well, your habits tend to get really out-dated when you disappear for ten years.”
Clay gulped. He could feel the bitter sting of those words and he sensed the depth of Rust's pain. All he could softly say in reply was, “I'm sorry.”
Rust moved on.
“You sent flowers to the hospital. After the hit.”
“Yeah, I did. How'd you know?”
“You almost signed your name. You wrote a C, but turned it into a heart instead.”
Clay had forgotten that detail. He had to chuckle at himself, remembering how he'd signed the card with a 'C,' but didn't have the balls to go through with it—it didn't seem fair. At the last minute, he grabbed a nurse's pen and changed it to a heart.
“Yeah. Good eye.”
“Between that and the Hershey chocolate bar, I figured you wanted to be found out.”
Did I? Clay had to ponder that one. “I don't know. Maybe? I've been wanting to reconnect with you for a while. I just wasn't sure how to do it. And I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk to me.”
“Well. I'm not sure of that yet, either.”
Clay went silent. He bobbed his head with understanding. His eyes had finally started to adjust the darkness, and he started to look around the suite. But he still couldn't see much—just things that were white and managed to catch the very little light that managed to filter through the heavy curtains.
Clay wasn't sure what to say, either. Pain had started to shoot through his pelvis, so he shifted the weight off his leg.
Rust didn't miss a beat. “Looks like you're favoring your left leg there.”
Clay's mouth opened. “Wow. You can actually see in here?”
“Sure. Most days, this is way too bright for me.”
“Jesus,” Clay muttered. “I'm so sorry.”
“It's not your fault.”
“But I blame myself for it. If I hadn't gone to the game--”
“Doesn't matter,” Rust cut him off. “I know better. I'm a hockey player, Clay. I know I need to keep my head up out there.” He paused. “So what happened to your leg?”
“Ah, it's the hip. I fell a few years back.”
“Fell?”
“Yeah. It was a work thing, I guess.”
“Oh.” Pause. Clay wondered if Rust would ask what he did for work, but he must not have been ready for that—because he passed up the opportunity.
“You want to sit, then?” Rust asked.
“Sure.”
“Couch is over there.”
Clay figured he was pointing it out, but he couldn't see a thing.
“I uh, I think I need a little help finding it.”
“Oh. Right.” Rust's voice came closer as he neared. “I'll show you.”
Clay reached his hands out blindly, fumbling and groping in the dark. Suddenly, he felt the warm grip of Rust's hand as it wrapped around his forearm.
Oh, Clay sighed softly to himself, his throat tightening. It felt bigger, stronger, more manly than he remembered. Damn, it had been so long since he'd felt his old friend's touch.
Rust guided him through the darkness, through the suite, until the backs of Clay's legs were up against something soft.
“Here. Sit
.”
Clay lowered himself into the couch. “Thanks.”
And then they were quiet again. A long, pregnant pause. Clay didn't know if he should say something to end the silence. Besides not knowing what to say, he figured he should wait for Rust to speak.
At last, Rust had something to say.
“You know. All these years, I used to wonder what I'd do, or how I'd feel, if I ever saw you again. I didn't know if I'd be happy to see you … or embarrassed … or just plain mad. Or what. I didn't know.”
“Well,” Clay said, anxiously clearing his throat, “how do you feel?”
“Mostly some mix of anger and embarrassment. And wanting revenge.” Rust paused. “That's why I shut the door in your face.”
“Well—thanks for giving me a second chance,” Clay said lowly, vulnerably.
“I'm not, really.”
Clay winced. “You're not?”
“I would've been fine to see you go and never see or hear from you again.”
Clay gulped again. “Then … why?”
“For some reason, the light in the hallway didn't bother me when you were out there. I stared through the peep-hole and everything. But then, shortly after you went away, my migraine came back like it always does.”
“And, so what happened the second time you answered the door?”
“It stopped bothering me. Migraine's gone.”
“Huh.”
“It's amazing, actually. Normally, once I get one, it's going to torture me for twelve or so hours. So this is more about finding out why my migraine isn't bothering me, than it is catching up with you.”
Clay nodded. “Okay. Okay. I understand.” He took a deep breath. “If the light isn't bothering you … can we maybe try turning on a light?”
Rust quietly considered the request. At last he let out a deep exhale.
“There's a lamp on the end-table on your right. Be ready to turn it off, though, in case it bothers me.”
Clay reached out for the lamp. He felt it and moved his hand upward until he found the switch. He turned it, and they both squinted as their eyes tried to adjust to the dim yellow light …
“How's that?” Clay asked.