The Bridges We've Burned (Can Always Be Rebuilt)

Set five years after the events of The Lords of Discipline, Will decides to have a talk with an old friend, and instead finds himself falling for him all over again.

My palms begin sweating as I enter the coffee shop. It's a tiny little Starbucks off of the main road that cuts through Charleston; it popped up 4 or 5 years ago and I guess it's where people go to discuss important life matters over disgustingly overpriced coffee. I'm not much of a coffee drinker, so I order a sickly sweet-sounding concoction and place myself firmly on a stool in the corner of the room.

The smell of new wood and vanilla and coffee beans surrounds me and beckons to me, pulling me deeper into the strange space of this small shop that I've glanced at countless times as I've driven down the road, but never entered. It's peaceful, and I think I'm beginning to enjoy myself a little.

Peace is a somewhat foreign concept to me these days. Rarely do I sleep without waking up throughout the night, whether that be caused by the two families living on either side of my crappy apartment, or the terrible nightmares I have that I've been told I should see a therapist for. I keep telling myself that it's the former, but when I find myself alone on my floor during holidays and celebrations, I know I can't lie to myself.

I jump as my name is called by a young woman with her hair pulled back and through a black cap. I hurry up to the front and awkwardly take my drink with a thank-you and a nod. She smiles back at me with pinked lips. Hers is a pretty smile, one of those that you could stare at for hours, memorizing every detail and studying every imperfection that wasn't there.

I realize I'm holding up the line as a couple behind me quietly elbows me out of the way to get to the counter. Apologizing, I scuttle back over to my nice, warm corner and return to my thoughts, meaningless little things about the workers fussing behind the counter and the people zipping in and out of the shop.

My - I think it's an iced coffee - drink is sweating onto the table now and I search the room for a napkin to clean up the mess. Seeing nothing, I make the trek up to the counter again where I'm met with the same cute and comforting smile. I return it, and I feel my eyes crinkle at the corners as I do.

"May I have a napkin? My cup is, uh, leaking."

The girl, whose name I see from her shirt is Charlotte, reaches to her left without so much as breaking eye contact and pulls out a stack of napkins. She hands them over to me with a bigger smile, showing pearly teeth this time, and I feel my face heat. I probably should have taken off my scarf and jacket, because I'm not quite sure I want to be this warm right now.

"Here you go." She eventually looks away and busies herself with wiping down the counter. I stand dumbly in front of her, glued to the floor. After a moment of silence between us, she glances back up at me. "Is there... something else?"

I swallow thickly and nod. Then I shake my head, but then I do a "so-so" motion and Charlotte laughs. "Well then, spit it out!"

"I, well, I just happened to notice what a nice smile you have." And really, that's all I wanted to say. I get nervous and I have a very thin filter between my brain and my mouth when that happens, and now is no exception. "Charlotte. And a pretty name to boot."

I don't think I was trying to impress her, at least I wasn't willing to admit it at the time. She had other ideas, evidently, for when she leaned over the counter and placed her fingertips on mine, her gaze was nothing but playful and flirtatious.

"Why, what a gentleman you are, Will."

Hearing my name on someone else's lips was a slight shock to the system. "How do you know my name?" I asked, slightly awestruck, but I felt my cheeks pink as Charlotte laughed again, this time more directed at me and mocking.

"Your iced coffee? You gave the cashier your name."

"Oh."

Charlotte raises her eyebrows. "It's nice to match a name to that handsome face." A beat of silence passes before she gestures to my table and says, "Is that other seat taken? I'm about to go on my lunch break."

A part of me wants to say no, I'm not busy at all, and have this pretty woman sit down and have a coffee with me because that's what people do these days on dates. But the other part of me knows I shouldn't push this impending interaction off any more than I have.

Once again, my good morals win me over. I politely decline, and explain that I've been waiting on someone to come.

Her smile falters a little. "A friend?"

I nod and my lips form a tight smile. "You could call him that."

It was almost comical the way her eyes bugged out and she gaped at me as I thanked her and halfway sulked back to my table.

Really, I think to myself, it wouldn't be the first time Tradd prevented me from getting together with a cute girl.

- - - -

It's been snowing steadily for fourteen minutes and eleven seconds. I have my watch next to me on the table and frequently my eyes drift to it and record the time.

Ever since my time at the Institute I've had a strange fixation with time. After I had graduated and moved onto a decent four-year college in North Carolina is when I really started to feel the effects of my time in that hell.

It wasn't uncommon that I would stay awake for days at a time, either laying in bed until my classes began or sitting at my desk, writing meaningless and unfinished stories down in a torn notebook. I bunked with two other men during my first year, thrown together because we had all been in the Service. I talked very little to the two and even less to their girlfriends and occasional hookups, but I would nod to them every morning when I rose to shower. I barely remembered their names and am almost certain that they never knew mine.

My second year I bunked with a man named Richie, who was built solid like a brick wall but had the softest eyes and the most pleasing voice. His resting face looked angry and a little confused, but he was one of the kindest people I've ever met.

He reminded me of Mark so much that when we slept together one night after heading to town and drinking our weight in beer, I dreamed of my old friend holding me tight around the waist, pressing warm lips against mine.

Richie and I stayed in a relationship for eight months and twenty days after he graduated. We lived together in his parents' house that he bought when they had moved out. I was studying to become a teacher and continued with my education for another year as he worked odd jobs and told stories of his dreams to travel the world.

January 10th is the day he told me that he would be moving up north to pursue a career in computer engineering. I still had the rest of my college education to complete, so we agreed that I would keep the house and see to it from there.

We made love one last time that night, but both of us could tell that the high had worn off. I drove him to the airport a week later and watched with a sinking feeling as he walked into the plane and out of my life.

We kept in contact for a month before Richie brought up that we should spend some time apart. The words stung but lifted a great weight off of my shoulders as I agreed. In five days I had moved out of the house and into my own apartment building in Charleston where I have resided for almost two years. I have not talked to Richie since.

Throughout the mess of college and my failed relationship and me eventually securing a job at the local high school teaching AP English, there has been a single constant: that which burns into my finger like a brand, scalding and permanent and a reminder of everything I've overcome.

I wear the Ring. I wear that which Pig never got to, that which Mark wore for far too short of a time, that which Tradd doesn't deserve. Among the people of our graduating class at the Institute I wear the Ring, but when I stepped out of those gates for the last time I was no longer part of the pack, I was special because of the Ring.

That which I fiddle with now has been buffed so many times over the past five years or so that it's starting to wear the slightest. I've thought about going in to get it fixed up, but the thought always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. From my Freshman year I hear Durrell drilling into our heads that the Ring should never be worn, touched, or handled by anyone who was unworthy of it, who had not gone through the perils that we would go through.

Of course I know now that Durrell himself is unworthy to sport that lifeless lump of metal on his hand, just like every other member of the Ten.

My thoughts drift to Tradd, and my memory of his boyish face is as clear as day in my mind as if I've looked at him only yesterday. I close my eyes and I swear that I can feel his cheek underneath my lips that first day of our Senior year, warm and soft and almost prickly with the beginnings of stubble. I can feel the small of his back underneath my hand as we greet Mark and Pig at the door, bantering and teasing freely.

If only I had known.

The bell above the door chimes as it's opened and a freezing draft swipes through the shop. My iced coffee is now a sad-looking half-finished cup of brown liquid what with the ice cubes having melted. I glare down at it and wish I had ordered something warmer, and burrow into my scarf.

If I concentrate, I can still hear Tradd saying my name.

Opening one eye, I glance around to make sure he's not actually here - I arrived an hour early to prepare myself mentally, God knows I need it - then smile and return to my nice and harmless memories.

"Will, Will," he's saying with a soft smile as we walk along the beach during Junior year, hand in hand. "Will, can you hear me?"

My eyes shoot open as a hand closes around my shoulder. I don't have to turn around to know that it's Tradd; the press of the Ring through my sweater is familiar enough. A shiver runs through my body for a reason unknown to me, and I force myself to continue breathing.

I've pushed this off for long enough. It's time to face my past and plan for the future, though the Lord knows I want nothing more than to sink through the hard floorboards beneath my chair. My memories harden into less pleasant ones as Tradd moves over to the chair across from me and sits quietly.

When I finally lift my head to look at him, I'm met with a handsome face that's framed by large, wire glasses. His hair falls just above his eyes, covering his eyebrows a little, and it's the most endearing thing I've ever seen when he tosses his head lightly to get it out of his eyes but it falls right back into place. He looks older and smarter, if that's even a possible adjective to describe someone as. He's dressed in a fashionable winter trench coat and slacks, and I can see earmuffs around his neck. His skin is bright and smooth where it disappears into his sweater and I stare dumbly at that space for a long time.

I never knew how much I missed him until now, and boy, does it hurt.

"It's good to see you," he says breathlessly after taking a sip of what smells like hot chocolate. "God, it's so great to see you again, Will." His cheeks pink as he smiles at me and his eyes close. "You haven't changed a bit."

"You too." My voice comes out thicker than I imagined it would. The fact that he's sitting here in front of me makes my chest grow tight for reasons unbeknownst to me.

I'm taken back to the first night I kissed him, strangely enough. We were in his bedroom in the St. Croix estate, sitting facing each other on his bed. The room was larger and more decorated than four of our rooms at the Institute combined, but I suppose that's what you get for being rich.

I remember him ducking his head down and blushing something fierce, holding onto my hand as if it was a lifeline. I remember sliding my hand up his bare arm - he and I were both in sleeveless shirts and shorts - and resting it on his neck, below the shaved portion of his hairline. He had looked up at me then, breathless and eyes blown wide with wonder and fear, and my chest had felt small as if my adoration for him couldn't all be contained in my chest cavity.

I remember the first press of my mouth against his, fast and light, the first of many to come. He grasped my wrist tightly and asked if I was joking; I denied any humor. He asked if I was dared; I declined. Confused, he asked me to explain why, why him, why now, and I couldn't give him an answer. Eventually I would, a year later, as we laid together in my bunk amongst tangled sheets and a flat pillow. I would tell him that I loved him, every part of him, every inch and aspect and that I would continue to love him through anything and everything.

And now as I sit facing my biggest fear head-on I realize that what I promised that night was true; I do still love him, the part of him I knew as Tradd St. Croix: smart and dorky and so damn witty. The last time I had seen Tradd I had felt nothing but disgust and betrayal, but of course I was still recovering from Pig's death.

Tradd shifts in his seat with his head bowed slightly. He speaks only after I've had my moment to think: "Will, I know this probably isn't what you want to hear, but-"

"Don't apologize," I cut in quickly, extending an arm out towards him. Aborting, I retract it and nearly knock my lukewarm coffee directly into my lap. "Please. Please don't apologize."

He blinks at me. "I wasn't going to. I just wanted to say that... well, I forgive you. And I think you know what for."

A smile cuts across his face, though it's sad. It makes my stomach twist. "What I did during our Institute days is unforgivable. I know that, and you don't have to turn that knife any more. And with every ounce of honesty I had, Will, I promised you that I was working from the inside of the Ten. That's true. It's all true."

My nice mood sours. "You are apologizing."

"Not quite. You acted like any of us would. I'm so, so proud of you for doing what you did, Will. But I was in the wrong place at the wrong time-"

"For four years," I mutter, and he shoots me an irritated glare.

"...I want to tell you about what happened after we graduated. Thats why I agreed to meet up with you - to get some closure on all of this."

My lips purse; I had reached out to Tradd two weeks ago in hopes that we could meet and talk. Talk about what, I wasn't completely sure at the time, but I had needed someone to talk to. Now I sit across from him, glued to my chair, and wonder if I had made a mistake.

"I don't want your pity or your apologies. What you did was wrong."

"What about an explanation?" He quirks a hopeful eyebrow.

"You lied to us! Pig is long dead because of what the Ten did. Mark left the school and died in Vietnam knowing that his boyfriend wouldn't be waiting back at home for him." I can feel the telltale prick of tears behind my eyes, and I swipe at my face before continuing. "Every day, you lied to us. D****t, Tradd, I let my guard down for you! I loved you, so, so much, and you threw that all away."

Tradd stays quiet for a moment before slipping off his glasses and pressing his palms to his eyes. His shoulders begin shaking. I can hear him breathing, broken and wet.

"I know, I know, God, and I hated myself and I still do for lying to you guys. If you'd just let me explain-"

I stand up abruptly and my chair screeches horrendously. People have turned to look at me, and if my face wasn't already on fire from trying not to break down. "I don't want you to explain. I don't know if I even really want you here."

Tradd looks up at me, eyes shining with tears and cheeks wet. "Then why did you want to see me?"

My breath catches in my throat. I stare at him, really look at him, and I see the boy I loved: scared and hurt and small. I want to console him but I'm too upset. Now I'm mad at myself, I'm mad at him, and my emotions are firing in every direction.

The world tips on its side as I grab my bag and make a hasty retreat out of the shop and into the parking lot. I nearly slip on a patch of ice and slam my hand into someone's car, which causes the alarm to begin blaring.

It's nothing compared to the noise in my head and the sound of Tradd's soft sobs echoing between my ears.

- - - - -

The flurries make it more difficult than normal to see ahead of me, so I glare down at the ground as I trudge over to the park beside the little strip mall I had exited. My boots sink into the heavy blanket of fresh snow, crunching heartily. After a minute I find a bench underneath one of the huge trees that's turned away from the street and sit, not bothering to push off the snow that's gathered there.

I lean back, breathing hard. My chest hurts with how much my heart is pounding and my head begins to follow suit. I didn't slip on my gloves or my scarf before I had escaped the coffee shop, leaving my only protective gear to be my sweater and thick jacket. Hands shaking, I hastily wrap my scarf around my neck and stuff my blue-tinged fingers into my gloves.

It doesn't help with the chill inside of me, which is stronger than the light breeze that blows the flurries at the back of my head. It doesn't soothe my nerves or calm my senses. If anything, I realize as I can still smell the scent of coffee on my scarf, it constricts me, it holds me back like chains and handcuffs.

I close my eyes again and try to breathe through my panic episode. Maybe a little music would help?

Rifling through my pocket I pull out my cellphone - it's nothing fancy, a simple iPhone that's a few years old - but I stop as I unlock it and stare at the "Safari" app in the corner of the screen.

A strange feeling washes over me and I hurriedly open it up and type in "Tradd St. Croix" in the search bar. The loading sign ties my stomach in knots for every rotation. Finally, the page loads and I don't have to look very far for what I needed.

What am I looking for? I don't really know, but something made me search Tradd's name up and that same something - hope? - is causing me to begin crying again as I tap on the first result.

I read on in shock as the article discusses how "Attendee Tradd St. Croix shoves mysterious "Ten" group into the public light and subsequently gets General Bentley Durrell fired." I feel sick to my stomach as I read the list of names of cadets who were arrested. I recognize the names of a few professors as well, and of course the General.

My phone is burning a hole through my hand the further I read. I stop and stare at a particular section that sends a stabbing pain through my chest: "St. Croix admits that the punishment was severe and that he had sustained many injuries from the members of the Ten during his time at the school."

The tears that roll down my cheeks are cold on my skin and they freeze when they hit the snow-covered ground. I whimper pitifully, then pause for a moment as I hear Tradd come up behind me. "Quit sneaking up on me." The command is weak.

"Sorry," a familiar female voice calls, and I turn around slowly to see Charlotte walking towards me. She's holding something in her fist and I squint. "Your friend wanted me to give this to you - he said it was very important."

Never mind the fact that she had followed me and likely saw my pity party, I hold out my open palm and something small and heavy drops into it.

My heart stops completely as I stare at the promise ring I gave Tradd during Senior year, two days before I uncovered his secrets and our lives fell apart.

Charlotte drops down next to me on the bench and sighs. Her breath forms a cloud in the space in front of her, and I wish I could drift away with it.

"That's pretty heavy stuff you guys were talking about, huh?" she says after several minutes of silence. My fingers and eyes are glued to the ring in my hand, so I only nod a little. "I heard bits and pieces."

She squints into the snowy brush ahead of us. "Can I ask you something, Will?"

I make a soft noise.

"...why did you run?"

I blink a couple of times before answering as honestly and as simply as I can muster, "I'm scared."

"Of him?"

I shake my head. "Of... of what happened between us. I think." Charlotte hums and sits back, snuggling into an oversized winter coat.

"Did you tell him that?" she asks, and I shake my head. Why on earth I'm having such a deep and meaningful conversation with a complete stranger, I have no idea.

The longer we talk, the easier it gets to say Tradd's name without flinching. I open up to Charlotte, and pour my heart and my soul into my explanations for everything. I tell her about what happened between Tradd and I. I tell her about the Ten, and about how Tradd deceived us. I tell her, through tears, how many people have suffered because of what the Ten have done.

She wraps an arm around my shoulders and pats my knee. "You know they're gone now though, right?"

"See," I say, sniffling, "that's what I don't understand. Why now? Why not earlier?"

Charlotte smiles. It's a beacon through my tears, her pretty bow-lips which I now see are dusted in gloss. "I'm the wrong person to ask that, Will."

I nod. "I think... I think I'm going to go find him."

"He was still in the shop when I left." With that, Charlotte stands and begins walking away from me slowly. I sit for a second on the bench before calling out to her.

"Wait!"

She turns halfway towards me and raises an eyebrow.

"I, uhm, I wanted to say, thank you. For today." I fiddle with a button on my jacket.

Flashing a smile, she nods to me and starts walking again. A thought crosses my mind suddenly. I grin.

"Am I ever going to see you again?"

Charlotte continues walking, but she laughs. "Why don't you look me up in California when you have the chance?"

I suppose that's what sealed the deal. I laugh along with her as I watch her cross the street, her tall form disappearing into the flurries of snow. "Good-bye, Annie-Kate." I say her name softly, for she can finally be put to rest.

- - - -

After minutes or possibly hours, I stand up from the bench and make my way back towards the coffee shop, ring tightly secured in my palm. When I enter, the smell of coffee hits me in the face so viciously that I nearly stumble back.

I search the room of blank faces for who I'm looking for, and finally spot him in a small booth next to the window. There's a half-eaten muffin on a napkin in front of him, and he picks at the paper wrapping as he stares out the window. From here I can see how his eyes are tinged pink.

Making my way slowly over towards him, I run through my thoughts one last time. The promise ring is hot against my hand and makes a dull noise as it hits my Institute ring.

I slide into the booth across from him and breathe deeply. He doesn't move much other than dragging his gaze over to my direction.

Words fail me as I take a more careful look at him. Studying closer I can see the beginnings of scars that peek up over his sweater. His fingers are somewhat crooked, and I shiver.

"I was an idiot," I begin, and start to rev up my speech when Tradd puts a hand over mine. His fingers are long and warm as they curl around my wrist.

"You don't have to apologize for anything," he says quietly. He looks so small like this, so helpless, and I wonder how I could have gotten so frustrated with him before.

"I didn't know what you had done when I saw you at first." I turn my hand over and take hold of his smaller one. I gently start to massage it, trying to work the draw out of him. "I read about what you did, Tradd, and... God, I'm so sorry."

He stays quiet for a long time. The silence is deafening, but he slices through it with a broken, "I did it for you, Will."

I'm taken aback. "...for me?"

"Yes, Will, God, you are an idiot." He chuckles sadly. "I figured that you would do the same if you were in my place, so I went ahead and collected as much information as I could and released it to CNN."

I watch as Tradd slowly crumbles into the seat across from me. "But then the Ten found out. And they-" He chokes off his sentence with a half-sob, and I grab his other hand and tug it between my own. "They hurt me. Real bad, Will."

He finally looks up at me, eyes shining and full of something so much stronger than sadness. Pulling a hand out from my grasp, he tugs back the neckline of his turtleneck to reveal dark scars all along his neck. I can't help the gasp that escapes my lips.

"Oh holy s**t-"

"They tried to kill me, but then they'd stop right before I actually died." He chokes on each word like it physically pains him to say them. "They cut me and whipped me and drowned me, God, it was like a Taming times five."

Tradd sinks low and rests his head on his arms, crying freely now. "But I did it all for you. Because I thought you would be proud."

There's the metaphorical knife. I stand and slip into his side of the booth, where I crush him against the window in a massive hug. It's a little awkward because I'm still in my winter jacket, but I make do. Tradd turns and buries his face in the crook of my shoulder and neck and shakes and shivers as he cries. I let a few tears slip, too, as I rub his back and we both fall apart.

People are staring at us, but I don't care. My world is Tradd right now, and I am his. The weight of our Senior year crushes us together even more, and the unspoken tension around us is as small as the space between our bodies.

For a long time we sit and mutter apologies and explanations into each other's shoulders, drowned out by the sound of our ragged breathing. When Tradd finally pulls away I let my hands settle in the small of his back. It's like I never stopped holding him. We fit together like puzzle pieces.

"So," he whispers, and his tears have dried on his cheeks. "What happens now?"

I blink down at him and ponder my answer for a second. Sighing, I bring a hand to his cheek and smile as he leans into it.

"We... start over, I guess. Only if you want to," I add quickly. But Tradd smiles and nods, and suddenly it feels like everything can be okay.

I want to kiss him, I think, then flush and look away.

Surprisingly, he leans in first and closes the space between us, pushing the tension away and replacing it with a warm comfort. I kiss him back as the world slowly comes together again.

After another hour of sucking each other's faces off and cuddling, an employee notifies us that the shop is closing. The sun has long set and the room is empty, but I couldn't possibly feel more whole.

Tradd walks with me and holds tightly to my hand as we cross the parking lot towards my car. I stop as I reach it and turn to face him.

The street lamp illuminates the snow that's fallen onto his eyelashes and his hair, and gives him an ethereal glow. He's never looked more angelic, and I press a warm kiss to his cheek because I can't help it. He laughs with delight as I take him around the waist and twist him around, both of our hearts full with pure adoration. We end up kissing again as I press him against the hood of my car.

"I should send a thank-you note to Annie-Kate," I say between kisses. Tradd hums in agreement and presses our foreheads together. "For helping us today."

"She's really something, huh?" he ponders.

"Absolutely. And I hope I never see her again."

Tradd laughs loudly, and I drink in the sound as I kiss him one last time.

"I'll meet you at my apartment." He writes down the address and pecks my cheek before walking to his own car. There's a slight bounce in his step. I chuckle as I slip into my own car and sigh as I close the door.

My lips feel warm and my chest feels full, and there's few things in the world that could ruin this moment. From somewhere I can feel Annie-Kate watching, and I smile into the dark shopping strip, knowing she can see me.

The Institute ring hits my steering wheel as I back out of the lot and head towards my apartment building.

For the first time in many years, I wear it proudly.

In three years time I would replace it with a golden band that matched the one on Tradd's finger.

In seven years time I would set my wedding band aside as I try to scrub messy pink nail polish off of my hands.

In twenty-two years time I would pull out a small box and study my Institute ring for a moment, before handing it to my daughter as she graduated.

In sixty-eight years time I would hold Tradd's hand, feeling our rings knock together as I slipped away from the world, surrounded by my husband and children and grandchildren.

Author's Note

I do not condone or defend any of the Ten's actions from the novel. None of what is mentioned in this story should be cited as real or factual, this is simply my take on what happened after-the-fact.

Reviews are highly encouraged!!