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Trent isn’t looking where he’s going. He can’t really blame anyone but himself for the resulting crash.
“Whoa, hey there. Look who it is - Trent Crimm, indepen-”
“Please, not today.” Trent immediately feels a rush of shame and glances up at Ted, standing next to him on the sidewalk with a quizzical look on his face. “I’m sorry, I’m just not-”
“No, no, it’s okay. You were out for a walk, minding your own business. You didn’t expect to run into anyone, literally or otherwise.”
A moment passes, and Trent tries to get his emotions under control. He’s not himself today, and whatever semblance of normality he had adopted this morning is slipping away in the face of Ted’s earnest concern.
As for Ted, he seems to be practicing one of Trent’s favorite strategies as he simply waits patiently for Trent to respond.
Trent stares at the street, full of people in cars and riding bicycles and engaging in all manner of ordinary activities, each with their own hopes and fears and dreams bottled up inside. He forces himself to unwrap his arms from around his chest and straighten his jacket. “I was going this way,” he says, awkwardly tilting his head in the direction of the bridge.
“Well then,” says Ted, uncharacteristically subdued. “Mind if I walk with you?”
Trent shrugs and starts moving again, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Ted matches his stride and accompanies him, and Trent feels grateful in a way he can’t name. His grief is dampening his seemingly ever-present interest in Ted, but it’s still there, an undercurrent of curiosity and fondness and attraction.
After they’ve passed out of the main street and into an area with fewer other pedestrians, Ted speaks up.
“I feel like I shoulda brought my umbrella, given the size of that raincloud over your head.” His words are gentle. He’s giving Trent an opening, and despite himself, he takes it.
“My husband died today. Three years ago.” Trent feels his throat tightening and he runs his hand through his hair. “Drunk driver. It - it happened so fast. One day we were at home, talking about getting a bigger flat to accommodate all of Sara’s toys, and the next-”
“I’m so sorry,” Ted says.
Trent feels Ted’s hand on his arm, a brief touch and then it’s gone. He waits for more, for Ted to throw out some useless platitude, but nothing comes, and he lets out a shaky breath of relief.
They walk on. Trent focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, his shoes pinching his toes.
Richmond Bridge comes into view, and Ted makes an appreciative noise. “My father would have liked this place,” he says. “He didn’t travel much, but he loved to read. I think he would have been tickled, to know I was here. So many books, you know, set in merry old England.”
Ted’s tone seems anything but merry. Trent has a feeling there’s a story there, but he can’t quite muster up the energy to ask about it. He files it away for another time.
The sound of laughter reaches Trent, incongruous and foreign. There’s a family spread out on a blanket by the banks of the river. A toddler wobbles on shaky legs between its parents, who are overflowing with praise. A dog barks its encouragement and wags its tail with happiness. Trent suddenly stumbles on nothing, and then Ted’s hand is there again, steady and sure, keeping him upright.
“Hey, come on,” Ted says softly, guiding Trent to a bench. “There you go. You’re all right.” Trent lets himself be led and sits down, head in his hands. “Want me to get you a water or tea or something?”
Trent shakes his head, not wanting Ted to leave.
“All righty then.” Ted somehow understands, settling on the bench next to Trent. He’s close enough for Trent to feel the warmth of his body, soothing him with his presence.
Trent isn’t sure how much time goes by, lost in his thoughts. But he realizes at some point that the family with the child and the dog have left, replaced now by a group of teens kicking a ball around. He shifts, stiff. Ted is still next to him, head tilted back, smiling at the kids who have yet to recognize him.
“Ted?”
“Hmm?”
“What are you doing here?”
Ted raises an eyebrow, as if to question whether Trent had hit his head somewhere along their walk. “Sitting with you.”
“Yes, but - but why?”
Ted looks out over the water, pressing his lips together. “Life is sad, sometimes. Awful sad. Some days that can hit a fellow pretty hard. But Trent,” Ted tilts his head and meets Trent’s gaze. There’s a depth in his brown eyes that echoes the loss in Trent’s chest, and he feels his heart clench. “You don’t have to be alone.”