Chapter Text
Ray Garraty isn’t sure how much more of his mother’s choked up voice he can take.
In the last 25 minutes or so since they finished bringing boxes into Ray’s new dorm room, Ginny Garraty has:
- Asked if Ray has his toothbrush: 7 times
- Asked if Ray has his lucky baseball: 4 times
- Asked where and when Ray is getting his textbooks: 6 times
- Cried full tears: 3 times
- Said goodbye: 14 times
As she putters around his yet-to-be unpacked pile of belongings aimlessly, Ray feels a familiar wave of guilt wash over him, the same one that has been shifting its tides over the last month. Before he can dwell on it for too long, she finally stops fussing and stops to face him.
“My boy,” she says, brushing a thumb across Ray's cheek. “What I wouldn't give for your dad to be here to see this.” Her eyes are a bit glassed over, as though she’s imagining something - or someone - just past Ray’s shoulder. Ray tilts his face into his mother’s hand and wonders, if he focuses hard enough, he could maybe feel his father’s hand there too.
College has always been in the plan - Ray knew it, his mom knew it. His dad knew it. Insisted on it, even, from the time Ray was young. When they would toss around a ball in the backyard, his dad would beam at every great catch, insisting that his boy would go to college on a sports scholarship and grow up to play for the Red Sox.
One of the greats, he would say.
Ray quickly refocuses and shakes the guilt off like a dog trotting out of a pond after a swim. If he doesn’t get a handle on this soon, he might find himself setting up a cot for his mom in the corner of the room.
“Alright, momma,” he says, pulling her in for a hug. “I don’t think I’m as far away from home as you think I am. And once you start up with your gardening club, you’re gonna forget all about me.” In a way, he sort of hopes that’s true. Without his father there, he worries how his mom will occupy her time with Ray gone. He has hope that gardening and book club and tea with her ladies’ group will give her what she needs to establish herself as a woman with free time instead of a self-proclaimed “empty nester.”
A rapid tapping on the window both startles Ray and Ginny and pulls them out of their goodbye. They spin around to see Ray’s new roommate, Hank Olson, with a goofy smile but clearly in a rush. “Garraty, you coming or what?”
“Christ Hank, yes, I'm coming. Gimme a minute,” says Ray, both exasperated and amused. Olson presses his forehead and nose against the window. He looks 10 years old.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Garraty, I’ve got him from here! I promise!” Ray expects that to pull another round of tears out of his mom, but she surprises him by giving Olson a wave and turning back towards him.
“It’s about time you get out there and start doing whatever college kids do,” she says, smiling and pulling him into one last hug. Their house isn’t that far away, but Ray can’t help but notice that she suddenly feels smaller than she did before. And that he isn’t really sure he’s ready for her to go after all.
—
Ray has to pick up his pace several times to keep up with Olson, who is practically skipping with excitement, as they cross campus to get to the university’s main park area. His excitement is contagious enough for Ray to not only be thinking of things to look forward to, but sharing them as well. But, mostly, he’s happy to see Olson enjoying himself. He owes his limited current, and probably larger future, social success to Olson.
High school was as close to a breeze as the experience could be for Ray. He had never been short on friends, and was a celebrated baseball pitcher who regularly brought pride to his family and his school. But when his group all split off to different colleges after graduation, he had arrived at freshman orientation in a position he'd never found himself in before - with no lifeline and no familiar faces. Just when he began to worry what type of guy he might end up placed with, this crude ball of energy appeared out of thin air.
“What’s up, sadsack? I’m looking for a roommate. You available?”
Ray’s head snapped up, turning in both directions to make sure he was the one being spoken to. The guy standing in front of him was staring at him expectantly, seemingly annoyed that he didn’t already have his answer. He was probably a foot or more shorter than Ray and was wearing a baseball cap over his shaggy black hair.
“Do you wanna know my name first or anything?” asked Ray.
“Eh, I’m not worried. You couldn’t hurt a fly, could ya? I’ve got a good sense for these things. Not so sure about my best friend Art, over there,” he said, motioning to a tall, willowy guy a couple dozen yards away, “but I’m sure he’ll do fine.”
“He’s your best friend and you're still looking for a roommate?” Ray asked.
“We’re dividing and conquering,” Olson had explained. “You get double the friends that way. He gets a new roommate, I get a new roommate, they got friends, we meet each other’s friends, and before you know it, you got a network that spans half the school. And I’m Hank Olson, by the way, if you care about names so much. You in or what?”
Ray had rolled his eyes, but smiled. He had to admit, he was sort of relieved to have met such a go-getter on the very first day. He had always wondered if the cinematic college experience he’d seen in movies was just some sort of idealized fantasy, but with Olson as an ally, it actually seemed within reach. Maybe it would be nice to have a big group of friends to navigate it with.
Olson was (surprise, surprise) a bit of an oversharer, and Ray quickly had a pretty full picture of his pre-university life. Olson had not had the easiest time in high school; with the same larger-than-life personality but never matched with the right group to understand him, he scraped through with no one but Art and viewed college as a brand new start. Ray recognized that their positions were essentially swapped, and he knew that, were he in Olson’s position, he would feel too beaten down to be as boldly social as he was being now. He really admired his tenacity.
And now, as they race towards the first social event of their respective new starts, Ray hopes that it’s everything Olson’s hoping it will be. And he’s excited to be a part of it.
God help the Walker University campus, because it is not ready for Hank Olson.
—
He hates to use the word “picturesque,” but there’s nothing else to call it. The scene laid out before him is directly off the admission pamphlet - a beautiful early-fall New England day with a blue sky and bright, fiery leaves. Every square foot of the sprawling green quad is filled with students mingling in every which way - sprawled out on picnic blankets, lining up at the food truck parked at the far edge of the fence bordering the train tracks, tossing around a frisbee.
Tossing a goddamn frisbee! He’s only ever seen that in movies.
“Would you look at these girls, Ray?!” Olson wails pathetically, spinning around like he’s in The Sound of Music. “We are SWIMMING in opportunity here! As we SPEAK!”
Ray laughs and half-heartedly agrees, but doesn't admit that he hadn’t even really noticed. Despite his solid social and athletic standing in high school, he’s never had a serious girlfriend. It wasn’t for lack of interest - girls were frequently falling over themselves for the chance to talk to him. But, besides a 6-month fling that didn’t pan out after graduation, he wondered if relationships were either more likely to happen in college, or were something that only happened for other people.
“Hank!” a voice calls distantly. Olson turns on his heel to see Art coming down the path.
Art is striking. Ray has met him a couple more times since the first day at orientation, but he is easy to pick out of a crowd regardless. He stands at least six inches taller than Ray, making him at least a foot and a half taller than Olson. His dark skin glows almost blue in the noonday light, making his white teeth and deep brown eyes even more dazzling. He’s thin as a rail, but muscular, with a cool and relaxed sense of style. His loose short-sleeved shirt is unbuttoned and flutters in the breeze as he strides towards them.
“Oh, nice! That must be Art’s roommate. I haven’t gotten to meet him yet,” Olson points out, and Ray swallows and frowns as the other guy trailing closely behind Art comes into view.
If Art is striking, the other guy is magnificent.
Although an inch or two shorter than Ray, the guy is visibly strong in all the places Ray isn’t. His grey t-shirt has the sleeves cut off, and his dark skin tone makes every movement of his arm muscles that much more noticeable. His dark brown eyes crinkle at the corners with his smile. His features are softer than the confidence he exudes. In fact, he seems almost shy. But the centerpiece of his appearance is the long, deep scar than crawls across his cheek from his temple to just above his lip. It’s impossible to ignore, but Ray doesn't find it shocking - he's intrigued.
His good looks are obvious to anyone with eyes, but it’s his blend of calm & self-assuredness that effectively seems to remove everyone else within radius from the equation. He’s quiet and humble, even with every reason not to be. But he MUST know.
Ray has known plenty of guys to size each other up and gauge what types of things they may have to compete for - girls, wealth, success. Who’s stronger, smarter, more attractive? Ray feels suddenly unsettled in his presence, maybe a little self-conscious, but he’s felt the sting of jealousy before. This isn’t that. He doesn’t feel competitive. He’s not sure what it is he’s feeling.
"Well, if you're not gonna introduce me, I'll introduce my damn self," says Olson lightheartedly after having his hair mussed aggressively by Art and calling for mercy. He's turned his attention to the other guy and is holding out his hand. "Hank Olson."
The guy shakes his hand and laughs. "Pete."
Art and Olson immediately begin their own conversation, and Ray feels betrayed that neither Art nor Olson had the decency to make an introduction. If you want something done right, do it yourself.
“Hi, I’m, uh… I’m Ray Garraty,” Ray says, extending his hand. He cringes to himself - Olson had made the handshake seem very natural, but Ray felt like he was about to give a job interview. So much for doing it right.
“Peter McVries,” he says, his handshake firm but not aggressive. Purposeful, even. Ray misses the handshake when it’s over.
“Alright losers, let’s get a move on,” Olson shouts, rubbing his hands together. “Places to be, things to do… people to do, I don’t know! The world is our oyster!” He continues skipping ahead, Art struggling to keep up. Ray and Pete follow, falling easily into step beside one another. Ray racks his brain for something else to say to him. What’s the right next thing to say? Why does this matter so much?
“You ready for this?” Ray blurts, gesturing to their surroundings at large, namely Olson excitedly talking Art’s ear off about all the parties they’d certainly start stumbling across in their first week on campus.
“A little jumpy, but maybe that’s good,” says Pete, shrugging, with a small smile that creases the scar on his cheek. Ray thought that he caught Pete giving him an up-and-down glance, but doesn't get the chance to follow up on it - Pete is now motioning towards Olson. “How’d you get stuck with that one?”
Ray laughs. “Ah, he kinda saved me actually. I didn’t really come here knowing anyone, so it was either get scooped up or risk landing with some psycho all year. I gotta kinda admire the energy.”
“Guess you’re right about that. Got lucky with Art, though. He’s much quieter - they’re some pair, huh?” Pete laughs softly, then pauses for a beat. “Too bad we couldn’t have landed together, but someone’s gotta keep these two in check.”
Before Ray even has time to process what he’s said, Pete’s speeding up towards Art and Olson, nodding towards them in a motion that encourages Ray to catch up. Ray can’t identify the feeling building in his stomach, but he shakes it off and picks up his pace.
—
“What a day, Garraty. We’re really in it now,” Olson beams giddily, leaping up to slap the doorframe and missing completely as they enter their room. He immediately starts picking shower items off his pile of belongings and chattering ceaselessly about the day. Ray isn’t used to the constant presence of another person but, in the grand scheme of things, he can’t help but enjoy the companionship. However, he’s having trouble focusing on anything Olson is saying.
“Hello, Earth to Garraty? I’m hittin’ the shower, you comin’?” Olson says, motioning towards the door. Ray waves his hand and gestures towards his own mountain of unpacked boxes.
“I’m gonna start takin’ care of some of this shit first. I’ll catch up in a little bit.” With that, Olson leaves and Ray can hear the slap-slap-slap of his shower flip flops treading down the hallway. But, rather than begin unpacking, he fishes a single item out of one of his bags - his lucky baseball. A gift from his dad. The first and only one they ever threw around together. He leaps onto the tall bed, throws headphones on, and presses play on his phone.
Oh, have I been too discreet?
How long am I supposed to wait?
I think about you nightly
Oh, can you tell I’m losing sleep?
Oh, what am I supposed to do?
It’s hard to stay cool
Oh, when you smile at me
And I get nervous every time you speak
Ray’s had a good day. He can’t deny that. He stares up at the ceiling, mindlessly tossing the ball, relaxing in the first quiet moment he’s had to himself since arriving this morning.
He thinks of Art’s roommate.
He thinks of Olson with gratitude - he’s the perfect person to spend time around when you only have it in you to go where the wind takes you. He’s free entertainment on wheels. A pocket planner of activities.
He thinks of Art’s roommate again. He tries to memorize the pattern of the scar across his cheek, and the way -
“Jesus Christ, man. Come on,” Ray mutters to himself. He adjusts uncomfortably on the bed and closes his eyes.
He thinks of Art himself. He’s quietly funny and seemingly always down for anything - the perfect companion to both support and balance out Olson’s antics. Ray can see the two of them becoming good friends over the next few weeks.
Too bad we couldn’t have landed together, but someone's gotta keep these two in check.
“Jesus fucking Christ. Okay,” he says, rolling out of bed with exasperation. "Get your shit together. Play ball." He must be more tired than he realized. It’s time to shower this off once and for all.
He grabs a towel and heads for the bathroom.