The Sun and His Shadow
There are two Adrians Cross: the one everybody else sees, and the one only I get to behold. To the rest of Northwood University, Adrian was closer to a campus god among mortals than a student. He was the sun, a gravitational center around which everything and everyone seemed to revolve. When he walked across the quad, his basketball bag slung over a shoulder that seemed hewn from granite, conversations would falter and heads would swivel. He moved like a predator, smooth and fluid, a confidence so absolute it walked the edge of arrogance, but was tempered by a charisma so potent it felt like a physical force. Girls and guys alike tracked his movements with a combination of awe and yearning. He was all hard edges and lean, powerful muscle, with black hair perpetually artfully mussed and eyes the color of storm clouds that seemed to bore holes through you. He was loud, bold, and unapologetically himself. That was the Adrian everybody knew.
My Adrian was the one, well known as he was, who would spend a Friday night in our dorm room, patiently sitting through my meandering explanation of Renaissance literature, his long legs stretched out on my cluttered desk, a real, still smile playing on his lips. He was the one who knew I didn't enjoy loud parties and would seek out a corner of the room where we could sit and talk, creating an invisible bubble around us where the noise of the world outside faded away. He was my anchor, my friend, my best friend since we were children playing forts in his backyard. I was the mousy, bookish nerd who adored the company of paper and ink; he was the sun. For as long as I could remember, my whole life had been bounded by my orbit in the shadow of his fame, and I'd never once wished to break free. It was a safe, predictable place to be.
Recently, though, my feelings had begun to feel. different. Stronger. A low undercurrent of uncertainty and unease beneath the surface of our friendly friendship. I caught myself looking at him more, looking at the way the lines around his eyes crinkled when he smiled, or the furrowed intensity on his face when he read plays for the team. I'd feel a weird, protective flutter in my chest when he moved too close to someone I didn't particularly care for at a party, a jealousy I had no right to. I told myself it was friendship, the close, brotherly bond we'd always shared. But a little, nagging voice in the back of my head told me otherwise. It was a voice I tried to ignore.
This afternoon was the quintessence of his world and mine. I was strolling back from the library, my arms laden with heavy books, when I noticed him emerging from the gym. He was grinning with some of his teammates, his face flushed with effort, exuding a radiance that commanded every glance. He noticed me from across the lawn, and his face erupted into that characteristic, dazzling grin that was all mine. "Ethan!" he shouted, running towards me, abandoning his group of admirers in an instant.
Good morning, I said, balancing books under my arms. "Good practice?
"Brutal," he said again, still grinning. "Coach is giving us the max for next week's championship game. It's going to be huge." He glanced at the stack of books I was struggling with. "For real, man, do you own the library? Here, let me get some of those."
I hadn't even had time to complain when he'd already grabbed the top three heaviest books off my stack. In doing so, a heavy metal catering cart, abandoned on a slight incline by the cafeteria staff with careless disregard, began rolling. It picked up momentum, careening straight for a cluster of students sitting on the grass, unaware. "Look out!" someone shouted.
It all occurred in a blur. Adrian, barely appearing to be moving, was suddenly in front of it. He put out one hand, not to balance, but just to halt it. The cart, full of trays and likely at least a couple hundred pounds, came to a sudden, instant stop with a muted thump. It did not even sway. Adrian just stood there for a moment, his face not even creasing, before he gave it a gentle shove back up the ramp where it came to rest.
Some of the witnesses who'd seen it blinked in shock. I watched, my mind spinning with the physics. He'd never slowed himself. He'd never dug in. He'd simply. halted it. In mid-air.
He turned back to me, chuckling about it. "Guess all that weightlifting is finally catching up with you," he teased, juggling the books I'd given him. "Come on, let's get these back to the dorm. I'm hungry." He started walking, and I fell into step beside him, still replaying the impossible moment in my mind. It was just one of those odd little contradictions I couldn't resist searching out, one crack in the flawless veneer of my best friend. The championship game was the following week, he'd told me. I knew I'd be in the stands, shouting for him, my heart pounding for reasons that had less and less to do with the scoreboard. I would be watching the sun, as ever, and nursing a secret that I was only just beginning to admit to myself. And I would be looking for those odd little moments, the impossible acts of strength and speed that were meant to have some hidden meaning, something just beneath the surface of the flawless boy everyone believed they knew.