Then in Rain

SO HE WALKED OUT OF THE house, onto campus. Silver dark, lights bursting, a fog, like a movie set, a feeling that it would rain, followed by rain, drizzle, mist, the finest distillation of water, as he followed the brick path. He would lose his nerve, the sensible plan made no sense, but he would never be able to wait, he was too sore inside, he was hoping for something, and trying to kill the hope, breathing in and out, first past the business school, then in front of the domed library, a few people out, walking as he did without an umbrella in the bits of rain. The path felt so familiar. How late was it? Late enough. The guys had a curfew. He would go, he would. He was afraid but he would do it anyway. So, past the bell tower, into the forest around Kenan Stadium, where he had come, so faithfully, so pathetically, every Saturday when there was a home game, sitting in the stands, looking at that tiny figure, shoulder pads and knee pads, helmet, the number all anybody could see from that distance but there he was, darting in and out, leaping, diving toward receivers; hardly any of it made sense; why would Ronny go to the game to watch? Why torment himself when the space between them had gone dark and silent months ago. Anyway, the images tumbled regular as his footsteps tonight, wet pine straw on the bricks, leaves slicked and wet. He was descending the hill now, the squat brick form of Teague through the trees, the scattered lights of Avery, the hill still descending, past Bryson Field, floodlights dark, the baseball diamond covered, grass of summer in hiding, and how many times had he walked this way looking up at the balconies of Ehringhaus, counting the floors and the windows to find the room where he used to live. The drum in his chest, the beat that drowned out everything, blood rushing, the rain falling heavier now. He had to keep moving, no matter how wet he was. Into the lobby, empty, the snack bar closed; he was dripping, but in the elevator he felt calmer, took a deep breath, rode up to the lobby, and then, there it was. He was on the balcony, all quiet, and walked to the room, anybody could see him now. Taped to the door a picture of Tate, a sign that said “Planet of the Apes.”

Before he could knock, before he could take a breath, as though the world meant to give him no time at all, the shock of sound, the door opened, and there Ben was in his pajama bottoms, hair a mess, scratching his head, and Ronny started back, and looked again, and shock washed over him. What was this expression, anyway? Not happiness or welcome. Blankness. He shoved Ronny to the door of the suite, looking back at the other rooms. Running a hand through his hair, barefoot, cold. “Fuck, you’re soaking wet,” he said, and stood there. Went back in his room. Came out with a blanket, led Ronny to the stairs, wrapped him in the blanket. “Jesus.”