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Technically, it was our third kiss that counted most.
Everyone knows the first. I don't count the first, for a number of reasons. Shawn was coming off a high, downing coffee in the ring to keep himself functional - only kissed me cause Mark double-dog-dared him to. Should've known, after that incident with the gauze, that Shawn couldn't turn down a double-dog-dare if his life depended on it.
Fucker dared Shawn anyway.
Truth be told, I don't really remember anything about it but the coffee on Shawn's breath and the shocked roar of the crowd. Shawn's lips on mine and Shawn's hands in my hair all just kind of blur together until all I remember is Shawn shoving me away and milking the crowd's reaction for all it was worth. I remember Jo smothering that "why am I not surprised?" grin of hers and Rick rolling his eyes. But most of all, I remember how Shawn wouldn't look me in the eye afterward.
Obviously, he didn't want to talk about it, so I waited until after the show to catch up with him. The arena was deserted, and I found him in the parking garage, of all places. Six floors later, I was looking everywhere but up, and whaddaya know? - there was Shawn, sitting on a concrete ledge and chain-smoking, with his sunglasses still on. Probably hiding reddened eyes from his latest drug trip again.
You couldn't have paid me to sit up there, but heights had never bothered Shawn - I can recall far too many road-trips where Kid and Shawn would trade tree-climbing stories. Me? I'd have rather tried to choke out Shamrock than climb up there after him.
Shawn still wouldn't look at me, just took drag after drag of his cigarette and looked out at the Penn State buildings, dark except for the glow of the streetlamps. Fine with me - Shawn just gets like that sometimes - so I just sat there, letting him decide when it was okay to talk. I was actually about to throw in the towel and leave him to find his own way back to the hotel when Shawn threw the cigarette butt to the ground, and leaned over, hooking a finger into my shirt, and kissed me slowly and softly on the lips before letting go.
That was our second.
I almost don't even remember it happening if not for the taste of tobacco on my lower lip he left behind. But damned if it didn't throw me for a loop. I had to grab onto the concrete ledge beside me to keep from falling, and I couldn't stop thinking - what was this about?
Was this a "thanks for not tattling to Vince that I was high at a taping"? Was it one of Shawn's usual I'm-high-so-you-should-cuddle-with-me impulses?
"Hunt, stop freaking out, will you?" Weird. Shawn usually wasn't the mind-reader between us. "This isn't because I'm high."
I raised an eyebrow. "It's not?"
Shawn slid his sunglasses off, revealing perfectly clear blue eyes. No redness. Only a shadow underneath leftover from last night's partying and popping LSD with the boys, but it wasn't the deep circles the makeup girls had been hiding with loads of concealer. Hell, I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen Shawn in this good shape - definitely months ago, maybe not even since Kev and Scott had left.
"Nope. I'm off the booze, the pot, and the juice. I've been completely clean for approximately one hour and seventeen minutes."
I actually stuttered, trying to get the words out. "You wh- what? Why?"
"You told me to, idiot." Bastard actually laughed and poked me in the chest. "Cause you were right. I finally got sick of the mood-swings and the letdowns. Finally had enough."
He was lying. Oh, not flat-out lying - that was never really Shawn's strong suit - but that not-quite-truth manipulation that Shawn had always, ever since a military childhood, been really good at. That was Shawn for you. He'd never lie to your face, just slide enough of the truth into whatever he wanted to cover up and flash that damn grin of his at you, and you'd forget that anything was wrong.
And usually, I'm the only one with the balls to call Shawn on his fibs.
"No, it's not," I said, "I know you better than that. You're not nearly that noble, Shawnie."
Shawn scowls - he hates that nickname, and he really hates that I'm right. And I'm glad there's actually a chance of him listening to me, though that chance has been getting slimmer ever since Scotty and Kev took off for Atlanta. I miss those long car rides with Kid air-drumming to Judas Priest and Scotty backseat-driving, bitching to no one in particular about my lane-changing skills. I miss Kev trying (and failing) to keep order. I think I even miss Shawn's drunken yowling to "More than a Feeling", but that may be the knock on the head Bret gave me talking.
Good times. Times that were few and far between now than me and Shawn were split up on Vince's orders. Something about the Kliq mocking kayfabe yet again. Fucking Vince and his antiquated ideas about the business. Who the hell cares whether or not Shawn and I share a car, hotel room, dressing room, or any other room?
"Oh, fuck you. I'm trying to be serious here."
"No, you're jerking me around like you always do."
Still not looking at me, Shawn slid down from the ledge. He ran a hand through his shower-wet hair and turned to lean against the concrete, biting his lip in that telltale "how do I put this?" way.
"I'm done with everything but the pain pills. I - I can't give them up. My back's too fucked up. But the pot, the juice, the rest of the pills, even the booze - I'm done."
I didn't know what to say. If I'd truthfully said the first thing on my mind, I'd have blurted out "I don't believe you", and he'd have clocked me for it. So I didn't say anything. Not when he promised "you hear me, Hunt? I'm done". Not when he tried like hell for three weeks to live up to my expectations.
And not even when he broke his promise.
Because like the idiot I am, I did believe him. Shawn looked me in the eye that night, and said he was through with all the shit he was putting into his body. I believed him through Dallas and the casket match that broke Shawn's back. Believed him through Mania 14 and what we thought was his final match. Believed him even when Shawn pulled away from me and found God and Becca, and had Cam a year later. Believed him even when he stopped speaking to me in '01. I've got no excuse, really - I knew what was happening. Kev would call me every week or so, and there'd be a throwaway "Shawn was out of it yesterday" or a pointed "Shawn's not doing so hot".
Stupid fucking me thought it'd sort itself out. That he'd either scare himself straight (so to speak), or realize that he wasn't getting any younger and ease himself off the pills. Becca and religion having that big an effect never entered the picture. Mainly because the thought of Shawn tied down with responsibility depressed the hell out of me.
I was fucking ecstatic when I picked up my cell one day and saw Shawn's name on the caller ID. I picked up, heard the smile in his voice, and it was like he'd never gone. We were on the phone for hours, long after Steph had fallen asleep in our bed and Shawn was whispering so as not to wake Cam.
And we just talked.
About marriage - how Shawn and Becca got hitched in Graceland, how me and Steph couldn't so much as CC Linda on an email without her hinting at it. About kids - how excited we were for me to meet Cam, how he just knew I'd be a fantastic father one day. About his new faith, even if I didn't understand and probably never would.
Everything but what we'd almost had eight years ago. Shawn wouldn't admit to it, not with his shiny new Bible telling him it was a sin, and not with me convinced I'd been wrong about what might have happened that night.
He was in amazing shape. His back had healed up, and he was doing moonsaults off the top rope when we'd thought, back in '98, that he'd barely be able to walk again. He was cleaner than clean - no booze, no drugs, not even any pain pills. He thought he was invincible.
But then there came the match itself. Shawn desperately wanted to get in the ring, but Vince wouldn't clear it. Shawn's back could have gone out at any second, and what could Vince possibly do if that happened? Even though everyone could see it was killing Shawn to watch Dwayne and Mark and Chris and Adam preparing for big matches, having to sit on the sidelines as Ric got in the ring at 53 when he couldn't at 37.
If there was one thing I could sympathize with, it was the absolute and unparalleled suck of sitting around while your friends built their careers without you. I can't forget that rehab room in Birmingham and an entire year of doing absolutely nothing. No way I was letting him go in there alone. Shawn was still my best friend: if he was going to try a comeback on that surgically repaired back, I was damn sure going to be the other guy in the ring.
And really, Kev and Scotty would have had me killed if I'd let Shawn go in there with just anyone.
So we planned the match around possible contingency plans: if Shawn's back went out at the beginning, it'd be a total beatdown to him and a slight comeback for a mercy pin from me; if it didn't hold through the chair shots, we'd do a ref bump on Earl and a KO on Shawn; if it went out after the table spots, it'd be a double countout; and if it held through to the end, he'd get the clean pin.
Lots of incentive for him to hold out past the point of normal human endurance, yeah, but this is Shawn we're talking about. It's not a match if he hasn't done at least three suicidal spots. And I was prepared to go along for the ride.
That day in Long Island, we sat in the empty arena, watching the ring crew set everything up. Didn't even talk about the match for a long time, focusing on petty, stupid things instead. Mark's new bike. Jay hooking up with Trish. That gang in development everybody kept calling the "second coming of the Kliq" - Lesnar, Cena, Batista, Jindrak, and Orton the third. Even what we were going to have for dinner later.
Stupid, but I'd missed just bullshitting with Shawn. Sitting around, talking, not talking - just being with him.
And then he leaned over and kissed me. Deep and slow, swallowing my gasp of surprise with a sexy-as-hell swipe of his tongue to my lower lip and pulling away with a puff of hot breath. Rested his forehead against mine and threaded his right hand through my hair, knocking my ball cap off in the process. I didn't even notice as I listened to his ragged whisper of "missed you, Hunt".
That was our third kiss . . . and that's why it's the one that I count the most. Because it was the one that he meant.