Wood: A True Lover's Story

He made as much noise as he could when he came inside. He slammed the door closed, then stomped his boots on the mat before removing them. His roommate was nowhere to be found, so Trent threw his bag in the closet, then slowly made his way down the hall to Wood’s open door. He didn’t know what he was preparing himself for, but he exhaled in relief when he saw Wood’s bed was still made and his room empty. He had to be home because the man knew better than to leave so many lights on.

Where the hell are you? “Wood!” Trent called out. He walked back into the living room and turned in a full circle, wondering what was going on. It was a small living space, and Wood was too big to hide anywhere. He was about to call out Wood’s name again when he saw the back door was cracked. He figured maybe he was taking out the garbage and decided to get his food ready to put in the oven. It would’ve been nice if you’d made dinner since you’ve been here all evening. Trent glanced behind him and stared at the door, anticipating Wood’s big body to fill up the frame any minute.

He finished washing his four pieces of chicken breast, then seasoned them with salt and pepper and put them in the oven. After he washed his hands, he went to the back door and checked outside to see if his roommate had got lost. The porch light was off, making it easy for Trent to see the bright orange flames flickering in the aluminum ice bin Mike used for cookouts. What the fuck? Wood was sitting on a stack of cinder blocks, hunched over a bag, barely moving.

Trent eased out the door, confused as to why the hell Wood was sitting in the cold in front of a makeshift bonfire. “Wood,” he called as he came closer. He was already shivering as he rubbed his hands together. “It’s freezing. What are you doing out here?” Wood sat up taller, and that’s when Trent saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He couldn’t believe it. He’d never even seen Wood drink one of his beers; now Trent could tell that he was three sheets to the wind.

“Go home, Trent,” Wood slurred, as he tilted the bottle high and chugged three large gulps before he set it down beside him.

“I am home,” Trent answered. Damnit. Wood looked horrible. His eyes were half-lidded, and his usually styled gray hair was tangled and messy. He sat slumped forward with his shoulders low, and every now and then he’d sway, then right himself. “Come inside.”

Wood ignored him as if he wasn’t even there and reached inside the trash bag that sat between his legs and pulled out a crinkled envelope. Trent watched as Wood ripped open the letter, his breathing accelerating the longer he read, as if the words were taking him to another place. Trent stood there silently until Wood finished all four pages. He thought Wood was going to fold the letter and put it back inside the bag, but instead he took the candle lighter and set it on fire. He watched it burn in Wood’s hand, the flames illuminating the pain and hopelessness he saw in those moist eyes. After he could no longer hold on to it, Wood dropped the singed paper in the bin with the stack of other ashes, then reached for his bottle.

How long has he been out here? It’d been long enough for Wood to be on his second bottle of liquor. Trent picked up the empty bottle of cheap vodka and threw it in the trash can. He stared at Wood wondering what the hell had happened in just one day to turn him into this. Who did this to him? Was it that Brody guy? Trent was getting angry, but most of all he was nervous. He recognized this kind of spiraling, self-destructive behavior quite well because he’d done it himself. While he’d never been a heavy drinker, he’d had his other vices.

“Wood. Come on, man. Whatever the hell it is, it can’t be that bad.”

Wood didn’t glance in Trent’s direction. As if he was on robot mode, Wood reached inside and got out another letter to repeat his torture. This time Trent walked behind Wood to get a better look at the envelope, but he couldn’t make out the addressee name in the dark. “I’m making dinner. You hungry?”

Wood’s reaction was a scoff, but at least it was something.

“If you’re not interested, then I’m gonna eat it all by myself.”

The next letter was only a few lines, and Wood finished it quickly, burned it, and tossed it. After he drank another quarter of his bottle, Wood slowly turned toward him, and Trent almost flinched when their eyes met. Wood’s grief was so real and potent that it was somehow filtering into him.