Childhood Rivals: A Story About Hope
Andrew stepped onto the porch of his parents’ house, breathing in the warm evening air of the countryside and sinking onto the old wooden bench, which creaked under him just as it had when he was a boy. A few minutes later, Alex strolled up to the house. He was the same friend Andrew had grown up side by side with—until something went wrong many years ago.
“Alright then, how’s life?” Alex asked, giving Andrew a blokish slap on the shoulder.
“Oh, not bad,” Andrew nodded. “Working, bought a flat in the city.”
“Nice,” Alex said approvingly. “You always were the clever one. Not like me…”
“Come off it!” Andrew chuckled. “Mum and Dad told me all about your place—best house in the village, apparently. Neighbours taking notes, they reckon.”
“You’re not doing too badly yourself—got a flat. Bought, not built, but still decent.”
They laughed. Then, as if out of old habit, they wandered back to Alex’s place. They dug out bread, eggs, a bit of sausage. Cracked open a bottle of homemade whisky. Tossed back a shot, both wincing—neither drank often these days.
Then, out of nowhere, Alex said—
“Listen… about Lucy. You heard?”
Andrew stiffened.
“What?”
“She got married. Some bloke… from the next village over. Teaches at our old school now.”
“Lucy?” Andrew repeated, something twisting in his chest. “Didn’t know that.”
“Neither did I, at first. Thought I’d get over it… Spent three days on the tractor—didn’t help. You get me?”
He poured another round. They drank, then sat in silence, staring into their mugs of tea.
Then, all at once, they looked up and burst out laughing—just like they had as kids. Until their sides hurt, until they gasped.
“Well, there you go,” Alex wiped his eyes. “All those years because of her… and that’s how it turns out.”
“Yeah,” Andrew nodded. “Our little tournament. Who was smarter, who lasted longer, who tried harder. And she—poof—off into the sunset with someone else.”
“Good for her,” Alex said suddenly. “Made her own choice. We both gave it our best shot…”
“True,” Andrew mused. “But, you know—not for nothing, eh? You built that house, I run a department at the hospital. We’ve both got something to show for ourselves now.”
“Exactly!” Alex brightened. “We’re twenty-nine. Life’s just getting started!”
“You were the one who started it, though,” Andrew reminded him.
“Maybe. But you kept it going. Clever git.”
“Means I was just as daft. Both of us were,” Andrew smirked.
“Remember how she’d sit on that bench after school and look at us both the same? Like she couldn’t decide—or just didn’t care to.”
They fell quiet again. Remembering.
Andrew and Alex had known each other since the maternity ward—born within days of each other. Grew up side by side, lived just a fence apart. Played together, went to the same school, shared a desk. Inseparable till Year Nine.
Then Lucy showed up in class.
She’d bloomed over summer. Went from a scruffy kid on a bike to a slender girl with a long blonde plait. And just like that—everything changed. Friends turned rivals.
Alex loved tinkering with his dad’s tractor, all grease and oil. Andrew buried himself in books and the school’s biology lab. One headed for the farm, the other for university.
Lucy just watched them both with that look—the one that made your pulse skip.
After school, Andrew left for the city. Alex joined the farm crew. Lucy studied part-time, drifting between them, bringing news—who got the bigger paycheque, who landed the better grant. But she never got close to either.
Not even the army could mend things between them. They became men, each on his own path. Alex built his house, bought the first car in the village. Andrew became a doctor, finished his PhD. Yet both still single. Still alone. Still carrying that memory of the girl with the blonde plait.
And now here they were, sitting in a dimly lit kitchen, tired, eyes shadowed by time—laughing. Bitter and bright.
“You know what? It’s good she got married,” Andrew finally said. “Honestly. Maybe he really loves her.”
“Maybe…” Alex murmured. “Hope so. Otherwise… what was the point?”
A pause. Then Alex thumped the table.
“Tell you what—let’s celebrate. For her. For us. For life not being over yet.”
“Right,” Andrew snorted. “For still being here. And not enemies.”
Alex poured one last shot.
“To Lucy.”
“To Lucy.”
Glasses clinked. Outside, evening faded into night. Two figures leaned on the old bench—no longer boys, but not yet old men. Just two lives tangled up long ago, never quite unravelling.
And Lucy? Well… hope she’s happy. She deserves that much.
