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The worst part is, Trent isn't even drunk when he sends, possibly, the most ridiculous text he's ever sent in his life. He really only had two drinks with Sharon, nursed slowly over a long conversation, so by the time he gets home he's barely even tipsy. He has no real excuse for it.
He types, and sends, Glad you made bail, if this is still your number. before even really trying to talk himself out of it.
In the excruciating minutes that come afterwards, where he gets no indication the message has been read, and no indication of a response, Trent lands face-down on his couch and groans into the cushions.
It's been three years since Ted left, and Trent hasn't heard a single word from him. Trent had tried to text, once or twice. The first had received no response. The second, an automatic one to let him know the number was no longer in service. He'd sent a couple of professional courtesy emails after that, two about the book, including his American book tour, and one about the podcast, stupidly hoping he could lure Ted into it somehow.
None of those had received responses either.
Trent's had three long years to come to terms with the fact that all his bleakest assumptions were correct. He and Ted were not friends - merely friendly coworkers who no longer worked together. Ted, as any sane, heterosexual man would have, had gone home to his son and his family and probably only thought of Trent in passing when he saw his name on a book or a byline.
Trent, meanwhile, has cursed himself to spend his entire life being associated with the man he'd written a book about, who he'd also fallen secretly and pathetically in love with, and every ridiculous part of that was all just something Trent had done to himself. Admitting that to himself, though, never made any of Trent's attempts to date any more successful. It never made him any less likely to pull up old press footage when Lucy was with her mum and the house felt horrifically empty and he got all maudlin and desperately lonely.
Just as Trent forces himself to sit up and push his hair back from his face, his phone vibrates in his hand. He blinks, and checks the notification.
Not sure how you know my arrest history, but it seems like you've got me at an advantage, stranger.
Ted must have gotten a new phone and somehow managed to keep his old number. Something catches in the back of Trent's throat. Would he even be answering, if he knew it was Trent? That's a silly thought to have, though - why would Ted even care enough to avoid him? It's fairly easy to ignore a handful of casual texts and emails when he wasn't even in the country. Surely now he wouldn't stop responding just because he found out it was Trent. Trent shouldn't be that unkind.
The headlines are all over the internet, Ted.
He should follow it up with an answer for the question of his own identity. He doesn't.
You've got the right number, then, I guess. Any point in me asking directly who you are? Lost a lot of contacts in all the moving back and forth.
There's a version of this where Trent draws it out, tries to hide behind the anonymity until it all falls apart - but he'd rather just rip off the bandage now and see where the chips fall, even if he is mixing his metaphors.
It's Trent.
Crimm.
There's a long stretch with no response, and no indication of typing. It lasts long enough that Trent genuinely contemplates smashing his phone against the wall and leaving his flat just to go back to the pub and drink himself into oblivion.
He does start to put his phone down when it vibrates in his hand again.
You didn't have to specify. I don't know that many Trents, Trent.
Not a proper hello. Not an apology, though Trent's not really sure why he expected one. He feels slightly nauseous.
My mistake, then.
He means texting Ted at all. He means falling in love like a pathetic idiot and still being more than a little hung up on it all, even three years later. He means to finally, then, plug in his phone and go about his evening, except that then his phone buzzes again, and he can't resist checking it.
Still good to hear from my favorite one, though.
"Oh fuck off," Trent says out loud to his blessedly empty sitting room.
Little bird named Keeley tells me you've got the number two sports podcast on all those fancy podcast apps, right after Mr. Taylor Swift himself. Congratulations.
That brings up more questions than it answers. Did Keeley tell him unprompted, in some list of potential PR opportunities for the women's team? Had Ted asked about him? No, that's too ridiculous to even consider.
Clearly Ted had never even seen his email.
Thank you, Trent sends finally. It's far outpaced even my own expectations. I'm very lucky.
The conversation could end there. It would be a natural place for it. Instead, two more messages pop up in quick succession.
I've got a lot of rounds to do catchin up with folks over here, but you just let me know if you ever have a moment to spare for a drink. I'd love to hear more about that podcast and any other stories you've got from the last three years.
I missed our chats.
Trent stares down at his phone, certain he must be seeing things, but no matter how many times he blinks or shakes his phone or swipes at the screen, the message doesn't disappear.
What on Earth could Ted possibly mean by that, after three years of radio silence? Why would he remember that fondly enough to fucking call back to it if he never actually cared?
The four words sitting there staring at him cut deeper than the three years of silence.
Yet - they also propose an entirely new question. What if he's been wrong to assume that Ted didn't answer him simply because he didn't care after all? What if Trent simply could have tried harder, or tried another way, and found out that Ted had other motives for all that terrible silence? What if, worst of all, Trent was simply one person on a long list who couldn't get Ted to answer, and even Ted's closest friends in Richmond haven't really heard from him in years?
Trent never brought up Ted around anyone from Richmond when he saw them. He'd been out of the news until recently, and he'd only come up in relation to the book. No one had ever seemed to have news to share, until suddenly he was back in town just a few weeks ago.
I did, too, Trent forces himself to admit.
Should I meet you at the Crown & Anchor some time, or are you banned?
Not banned. I took the whole team back to go clean up after we got out, that's the only reason I'm still up.
That and the adrenaline from breaking up a bar fight, which I haven't had to do since the last time Beard got arrested.
Surely you know you can't just tell me that and drop the subject.
I'll tell you at the Crown & Anchor. This Friday at 7? Or is your turn with Lucy?
Of course. Of course Ted remembers his daughter's name. Why wouldn't he?
How old is she now? 7 or 8?
She's 8. She'll be 9 in February.
February 19th! That part I do remember. God they grow up so fast, though. Hard to believe she's the same age Henry was when I first came to Richmond.
And he remembers Lucy's birthday. Wonderful.
Certainly hard to believe.
He realizes, belatedly, that he still hasn't answered Ted's invitation for a drink.
Is she with you this weekend, then? Or is this your polite way of telling me to kick rocks?
A sane man would say no. A sane man would limit their conversations to text, be polite but distant if he does finally run into Ted out in public in Richmond.
Trent lost his claim to sanity years ago.
I'm not telling you to fuck off, and Lucy's with Charlie this weekend. 7 on Friday would be fine.
7 on Friday it is, then. Look forward to seein your face again, Trent Crimm.
There's a sickening little twist of hope in Trent's chest.
See you then, Trent sends back before he can over-think it.
Then, he sets his phone face down on the floor, turns back over to bury his face in the couch cushions, and groans into them as loudly as he possibly can.
So much for sanity, and growth, and moving on.