Dear Rust…
It was my name, written clear as day. The ink was black and smudged, worn in places, leaving splotches of running black along the pen marks.
Furrowing my brow, I stared at the piece of paper that had my name on it.
Was it for me? Who’d written it? Could it have been my parents? Had they found my letters and decided to write me some of their own?
Unable to stop myself, I pulled the elastic band off the stack of papers. With unsettled hands, I picked up the one on top of the stack labeled to me, unfolded it, and began to read.
Dear Rust,
Your name is Rust. You told me that today. Who are you always writing letters to? You’re always writing letters. I don’t understand you. Sometimes I wish I did, though. Everyone else is so black and white. But you sing to the birds in the trees and talk to pinecones when you think no one else is around, and you dance and twirl and spin in the rain.
Who are you, Rust?
I wish I were allowed to find out.
Ancel
My hands shook. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to swallow, but my throat was too dry.
When had Ancel written me this? Years ago, when we were only boys? Why hadn’t he been allowed to find out who I was?
The next letter on the stack was also addressed to me.
Rust,
Who are you writing letters to? I have to know, but I just can’t ask. I wish you’d tell me. I wish you’d look at me at school. I know the other kids make fun of you— I don’t care. I want to tell them to stop.
And another.
Rust,
Why do you wear feathers and flowers laced into your hair? My dad says it’s not right for boys to wear flowers in their hair. I think he must be wrong, because they look like the Earth sprung them from the ground just so you could wear them in your hair.
And another.
Rust,
My dad hit me today. He hits me most days. No one seems to notice— no one but you. You noticed today. You touched my arm, light as a feather, and god, Rust, it was nice to know that someone out there really sees me.
But dad wouldn’t like you touching me. He says boys should never touch. I don’t understand why, but I don’t want to make him mad.
I should stay away from you.
And another.
Rust,
My dad packed us up in the middle of the night. He says that Heaven is too soft— not a good place for us. He says your mom said something to the cops about us— about me.
You gave me a necklace yesterday and made me promise to hold on to it. I’ll hold on to it forever.
Ancel
Tears began streaming down my face. I wasn’t a man just then, I was a child again— a young boy so hopelessly in love with someone who could never return the sentiment. I sat there all evening, even when the sun started to weigh heavily in the sky and the air grew cold.
I read about Ancel’s dad and the things he would call him— the way his dad used queer like a curse word and how he’d beat Ancel black-and-blue whenever he said he didn’t think there was anything wrong with boys liking other boys. I read about his dad dying in a car accident when he was driving home from the bar drunk. The last words from Ancel’s father’s mouth were that he wouldn’t have a gay son. Ancel wrote about how, even after his dad beat him and shamed him for the person he was, Ancel still loved his dad— and hated himself for it.
I read about Ancel beating up the boys outside the ice cream shop when we were teenagers, and how angry he’d been when he watched what they’d said to me— what they’d done to me.
I read about what our first kiss together meant to Ancel. He’d called it the greatest gift, and the worst curse. He hated how he felt when he touched me, couldn’t forgive himself for wanting another boy.
And I read about how he’d left me after the night we’d spent together, and how it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. He said he was still burning up inside when he touched me, but the voices in his head wouldn’t stop screaming at him that it was wrong. His demons, he said, owned him, and he couldn’t be with me while those demons were still there.
But the last letter held only a promise: that Ancel would come to me if ever those horrors in his mind faded. He promised me that not once had a day in his life gone by since the first time he’d seen the boy under the tree with the fire-red hair that he hadn’t thought about me.
The letters seemed infinite, but I read each and every last one. I learned about Ancel, all the things I’d wondered throughout the years, all documented on letters addressed to me as though he’d known I’d been wishing for them my whole life. When I’d read each one through twice, and the time had turned to evening, I thought of the boy— the man— that I’d fallen in love with. Through the years I’d assumed my pain was worse because he’d left me, but now I knew that his darkness far outweighed mine.
I wrapped the elastic band around the letters and held them close to my aching chest. After standing, I brushed off the pine needles from my pants, and looked off into the distance.
My heart knew he’d been standing there on the horizon, but still it raced as I watched him slowly walk over to me. Time no longer affected the universe when Ancel stopped just a few short feet away. His hands were shoved into his jeans pockets, and his open leather jacket flapped gently in the breeze. He looked older now, with lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. The stubble of hair on his face was thicker now, along with his arms, neck, chest…
Ancel’s hair was still the tar-black color I remembered from all those years ago. But his eyes— those sharp, ice eyes— were clearer than ever.
“Hello, little fawn.” Even his voice was deeper now.
I clutched the letters tightly against my chest. “Hello.”
“You finally found them,” he said, tipping his head toward the letters in my hands.
“Finally?” I asked quietly.
“They’ve been there for almost a month, now. I’ve come by every day hoping to see you here.”
“How long have you been here?”
“As long as the letters.”
“Why didn’t you… come to me?” I struggled with my words.
Ancel tilted his head back toward the sky. “Because you hadn’t forgiven me yet. I knew that when you were ready, you’d come here, and find the letters. And I’d be waiting for you.”
“You broke my heart, Ancel,” I cried out, my voice shaking. I was afraid. Anger wasn’t an emotion I possessed, but the hurt I’d felt because of him over the years was the closest to it that I knew. “You turned it to dust.”
Ancel took a step toward me and reached out to take my hand. His eyes locked with mine, and I couldn’t have looked away even if I wanted to.
“I’m so damn sorry,” he said quietly. “I’ll never forgive myself for that.”
His hand on my own was warm and big. When he touched me, I felt safe. I felt whole.
“Is there someone in your life?” he asked.
“No,” I replied softly, wondering how there ever had been anyone in my life except for him. His eyes twinkled when he looked at me, and all I could think about was how beautiful he was.
But Ancel’s beauty had evolved to me with each letter of his I’d read. He’d shared parts of his heart and soul, spilled them out onto paper for me, and with each word I’d read, I’d fallen deeper and deeper.
“Would you let me try,” he asked, “to be that someone?”
Ancel closed the distance between us, wrapping his warm arms around me, pulling me tight against his chest. Nothing in the world was wrong. Everything was right.
“I thought heaven wasn’t enough,” I whispered into his chest, my cheek pressed against the warmth of his skin through his T-shirt.
“I don’t need a chance at heaven. I just need a chance with you.”
“You can’t leave me again, Ancel.”
“I couldn’t if I tried. I’ve slayed my demons. I’ve come to terms with who I am. I don’t… hate who
I am anymore.” He squeezed me tighter. “Please. Just one more chance.”
I stepped back and looked up at him, willing the tears in my eyes not to spill over. Reaching out, I took his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together, and began walking through the field toward my back gate.
The gentle glow of the sunlight was just beginning to slide out of existence, casting long, deep shadows across the field. The grass and wheat danced for us, celebrated us, as we breathed in the sweet smell of lilac in the air. Birds sang in the distance, and the clouds that had once loomed overhead filtered through into the vast redness of the sky.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
The End
Author Bio:
Nash Summers likes to write stories about broken boys who are trying to pick up the pieces of themselves.
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