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Ryan picks up the phone without looking at the caller I.D. If anyone were to ask, he didn't really care. He didn't care if it was his mom or his coach or the president of the United States. A small voice in the back of his head told him that it was probably Cullen or Devon, calling to check up on him. No one else really knew. And no one else would even consider that Ryan Lochte America’s Slightly Dumb Swimming Hottie would be at a bar alone at fuck-o-clock in the morning trying to drink away any semblance of emotion.
Well, Michael might. But.
It was the night before Michael’s wedding. No number of shots or worried glances from the bartender was enough to make him forget that, which was certainly regrettable. But if he times his drinks right, Ryan thinks that he might just be able to go the whole night without remembering the way Michael would look at him in the mornings when they used to wake up together. Or the way that Michael would lay a possessive hand on his hip when he was slightly jealous. Or the way that Mike’s eyes would soften when they found his in a crowded room, as if Ryan was the only thing that really mattered.
Ryan shakes himself and orders another drink, pressing the phone closer to his ear. He half-wishes that whoever it is--Devon, Cullen, Kyle, whatever--says something insensitive so he could be angry instead of heartbroken.
“I fucking hate you.” Ryan freezes. There’s no context and Ryan still hasn't checked the number, but it hardly matters. He could recognize the voice across 50-meter pools and through telephone lines stretching 500 miles and at the end of the world.
“Mike.” His voice is a hushed rush of air into the receiver, like a prayer, and Ryan’s not sure if anyone even hears it. Before he can try again, Mike speaks again.
“I really fucking hate you. I don’t think I've hated anyone more than I hate you right now.”
Ryan thinks that the words should cut him, should hurt him, should stab him somewhere vital. But instead, he feels a hopeful numbness. Michael should be at his bachelor’s party, enjoying his last day as an unmarried man. He should be having fun with Jeff and Conor and Phil and whoever else he’d invited. He should be looking forward to Nicole--to exchanging vows and a honeymoon in Cabo and the rest of their lives.
But he’s here. Miles away, in Baltimore, sure. But it’s the night before his wedding, and he’s calling Ryan.
Michael keeps talking, and Ryan listens. “I’m marrying the woman of my dreams, Ryan, and she’s funny and witty and kind and beautiful--and all I can think about is you. I love her, but you’re the last person I think of every night before I go to sleep. When I’m sad, all I want to hear is your laugh. When I’m lonely, all I imagine is you barrelling into my room and kissing me stupid. When I’m in a room surrounded by Nicole and Hilary and everyone that I love, I think about why you’re not there and what you’d do if you were. I mean, let’s face it, you’d probably have Elle’s little girl wrapped around your finger already. And you’d probably have the ugliest sweater for ten years running and--” Michael cuts himself off. He sniffs and lets out a choked laugh.
There’s nothing for a while. And then: “I love her so much, and when I’m with her, I think that I might be almost happy. But I also constantly feel like something’s missing and I just really, really hate you.”
There’s a click and Ryan knows Michael hung up. Ryan is shocked still, phone glued to his ear, and it takes a couple strange glances from people at the bar for him to realize that there are tears streaming unchecked down his face.
He sniffs as discreetly as possible and rubs his sleeve over his face. Michael had been rambling, like he always did when he was drunk. Ryan thinks absently of the way Michael would get drunk and mumble sweet promises and continuous declarations of love into his neck when they were together. The thought catches him off guard and he closes his eyes quickly.
It’s credit to how wasted Mike is, that he didn’t realize that Ryan had picked up the phone. Ryan wonders what room or closet he’d snuck into to make the call. He wonders if there might be anyone in Baltimore he could talk to. He doesn’t think there is, but he hopes.
The decision is split-second. It’s not well thought out, and it certainly isn’t smart. But honestly, when has any of Ryan Lochte’s decisions ever been?
He calls his agent on his way out the door, leaving cash on the table. Shawn was probably sleeping, but this was part of her job description, so Ryan only felt marginally guilty.
(He could make it up to her later anyways. But this, this felt immediate.)
“I need a ticket to Baltimore.”