The Red Thread (1) (Patreon)

This is the first step, right?

I stared out onto the vast expanse of the college football field, cellphone against my ear.  I could hear the distant screeches and laughter of the freshman girls, loud bellows of students arriving from the metal doors of a nearby city bus. My lip curled into a small smile, sight trained on the boy who fumbled down the stairs, tripod strapped to his back, and camera bag in hand.

Admit it.

I tapped the edge of my cigarette, ashes drifting down to my feet, smearing as water began to fall from the sky.

This is the end.

You would've never spoken to him anyway.

"Yeah, yeah.  I heard you don't worry."  I grumbled into the receiver of my flip-phone — and it feels small in the crook of my fingers. 

I lost sight of the man — childishly irritated with my brother for it.

"I told you not to worry about Dad. Just quietly live your life — enjoy college, leave him to do what he's gonna do. You don't have to invest your life in your feelings towards him."

I sighed.

That year was the year I had decided that my father wasn't changing. I'd finally chose to dorm, hoping they'd take me — despite my record, I had good grades in every year prior.  Instead, I ended up renting at a dingy motel with little customer traffic.

No one had to know that.

I dropped the cigarette to the ground, rolled the tip of my shoe over it, and watched as it's embers withered. I looked up and cursed at another rain cloud, pulling my jacket tightly closed and the hood over my head as the rain fell harder.

"I've got to go; I appreciate you calling." I grimaced. Then I picked up the cigarette butt — because littering is a bit grosser than smoking.

"Brooks..."

Today was the day I made my decision. Either I'd stay in college, or I'd check out and work my full-time job, fall asleep on my couch in my work clothes— like any other young adult.  It was too much — juggling both.

Maybe that was the rich boy in me talking.

"Just take care of yourself."

The phone call ended, but I let it rest against my ear as the dial tone sounded. I couldn't help the annoyance that lingered. I went to the field specifically for the silence. It wasn't as if I disliked hearing from my brother, but the desperation that clung to his voice sounded an awful lot like my future.

I wiped away the droplets that clung to my face, bowing my head. The weather had been continuously poor that week. I couldn't bother with getting sick, with a full-time job and full schedule of classes — I barely had the time to sleep.

I'll get a raise soon, and classes will be over today — I won't re-enroll.  I'll never have to worry about paying tuition again — and most importantly,

I won't need Dad.

I scuffed the end of my shoes against the stairs as I departed. My feet met grass, separated only by the cloth of my tennis shoe. Rainwater threatened to seep through, and I grumbled to myself, running a hand through my hair.

I'll just need better shoes—a typical adult concern.

I started the long trek across the field, legs sore from work, and sleeping in a cheap motel bed. If my pride didn't separate me from my father's fortune — I'd be comfortable and living under the thumb of one of the richest men in the tri-city area.

If I sold my soul to the devil.

I shifted the weight of my bag of textbooks, shoulders feeling the strain of it all. Gazing at the gathering storm clouds, hovering over the academy in thick, dark swirls, my eyes fell to the left of the concrete monument beside the courtyard. A figure stood, face hidden behind his camera lens. My chin lifted in recognition.

It was the same young man as before; the strange, awkward boy with the tripod strapped to his back. He turned quickly, eyes squinting at the screen as he refocused the camera on a small flower that had bloomed through the concrete side-walk.

I'd seen him my first year of college, doe-eyed, and hair in a constant disarray. His frame fumbled past me with duffel bags twice his size, the same dark fabric latched to his back. I wondered if he would major in art, and I wondered about his name. I'd started to think about him too much, watch him from the corner of my eye. The interest I'd taken turned into something much more.

What kind of shit is this?  A crush?

I asked myself often, a year later, and disenchanted due to the fact that we'd probably never strike up any sort of conversation, much less have the slightest thing in common.

I don't even like art — or photography.

I raised an eyebrow, listened to the camera's lens shick, shick, shick.  And finally thought —

Why not,

and deliberately walked close enough to the boy to let the lining of my jacket slide across his own. His figure froze, and I smiled as pleasantly as I was able to.

"Nice camera," I told him.

Maybe I wanted him to notice me too.

"Oh, thanks," He beamed, with a slight stammer of surprise. His eyes flickered up and over my face, blinking rapidly with the falling rain. His cheeks were rosy with the cold, strands of hair damp and clinging to his skin. I nodded, and he looked back to his camera.

I shrugged to myself, hand coming to unzip my rainjacket as I pulled open the door to the front entrance.

"Do you like photography?" He asked, suddenly, spinning on his heel.

I felt a grimace tugging at my lips, the small interaction failing to cause me to feel triumphant. The hallway only held a trickling of morning students leaving early, the rest having already begun class.

"I like to look at it, but I don't take pictures."

I watched the way his dark eyes move and settle on the bruise near my temple, a remnant from last Saturday's fight. I felt self-conscious, which wasn't a normal state for me.

I realized — I was afraid of the other man's judgment.

"Well," He started, fingers working over the lens as he twisted the cap into place. His movements were jerky, nervous. I wondered what for. "We always have spots open in Lakewood. It's a small art facility a couple of streets over. I—"  The young man paused, hand ruffling his unkempt hair.  "I like it, at least."

"I might stop by sometime." I stuck my hands in my pocket, the scabs of my knuckles scraping against the black material. He nods again, a broad smile threatening to overtake his face as he averts his eyes. I let the conversation die naturally, ignoring the way my brain had pleaded for me to ask him his name — as I made my way towards the second door near the stairs, a discontented sigh leaving my lips.