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[Intro; 644 words]
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end of the line reminded him of hazy summer afternoons, of days spent chasing dragonflies by the pond or biking to the convenience store for soda and ice cream, of sandbox dreams and untamed laughter. If Will hadn't felt absolutely sick to his stomach with anxiety, he would have reveled in the strange familiarity of a voice he hadn't heard from in over ten years.
"Hullo, this is William Riley... I... I know we haven't talked in a long time, but..." He felt his Adam's apple bob along the length of his throat, and he bit his lip. Words pushed against his tongue, strangled his windpipe, How have you been? What are you up to? Where's your life gone without me? Though there was silence on the other end of the line, he knew he hadn't been disconnected just yet. Maybe they were thinking similar thoughts. Or maybe he was just waiting for Will to get to the point.
"I, er. I heard from a friend that you have an apartment in the city... I'm in town for--well. I'm here for now. I don't really have a place to stay... that is, I'd go for a hotel, but I think I'm staying... for a while..."
Will didn't distinctly remember the rest of the conversation, all he could recall were his fragmented attempts at picking out the boyish undertones of a voice that had long since matured, trying to find the remnants of a childhood connection that had long since fizzled out to time and distance. But somehow he'd said the right thing, and he had an address scribbled on a coffee shop napkin, and the blond felt sunshine warm his cheeks for the first time in what felt like centuries. Stepping outside the phone booth and into the crowded city streets, Will looked up at the skies and saw something like hope.
He didn't have much to bring to the apartment complex. Two luggage bags, carry-on size and stuffed to the brim with old memorabilia, worn and torn by a lot of travel and the slick black leather fading to gray in some patches. A backpack with a couple of sketchbooks and paperback novels, photographs, identification papers, a threadbare hoodie.
His shoes were scuffed and stained, his tie too long and awkwardly creased. But Christ, he'd tried so hard to smooth down his hair, minimize the stubble scattered on his jaw and the wrinkles on his dress shirt. The last thing he wanted to do was show up at his childhood friend's apartment looking like... well.
Once upon a time Will had a job in a cutting edge graphic design firm on the other side of the country, entertaining clients from all sorts of situations and backgrounds. Once he'd had sandbox dreams and even greater realities, and he never thought he'd step foot in his home state again. It was a miracle he'd managed to travel this far back, to start again. It was a miracle he was even getting the chance to say hello to someone he thought he'd left behind.
In the end, he was crawling back, wounded and defeated. He wasn't sure, no matter how carefully he treasured those old memories, that he would be able to face that kind of humility. Not yet. Not any time soon.
Will combed his fingers through his hair once more as he held onto that paper napkin. Approaching the call box, he punched in the number and held his breath, waiting to hear that hazy summer voice. Standing on that doorstep he swore he wouldn't be the timid, lost little thing that had placed that first call. He deserved to get back on his feet, damn it, and he wasn't about to sacrifice his dignity or sense of self because he was coming back to his roots.
 Felix-Fiasco · Fri May 11, 2012 @ 01:44am · 0 Comments |
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