Jim and Chad, Part 2 - 31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

 

I lean back against the door and sigh as I untie and kick off my hiking boots. I'm tired and dusty, and I just want a long, hot shower to chase away the pain of both hikes. I even briefly think about taking a short nap after the shower and before dinner, but decide there really isn't enough time.

 

I walk forward into the dimly-lit cabin and flip on the main light switch. Light from a couple of lights in the ceiling and a couple of lamps near the couch floods the room, chasing the darkness into the corners and holding it hostage there for the time being.

 

After a day outside with Jeff, it takes a few moments for my brain to comprehend where I am. When I came through here after lunch--and after that intense kiss Jeff gave me--I didn't even remember what had happened earlier this week. But as the shadows of night take over outside, the memories of what happened inside begin to trickle back. When I look at the bed, I see, feel, and hear Chad and me making intense and passionate love to each other. I see our contorted faces and hear our loud moans when we climax, then see our bodies collapse onto and hold each other tightly afterwards. We're lighted not only by a roaring fire in the fireplace but also by a strong fire of love and desire shining from deep within each of us.

 

But when I look at the couch, the picture becomes dark and chilling. I see myself sitting alone, surrounded by pillows, covered with a comforter, and crying as I watch the end of a movie about a relationship that should have been. This time the only light is the cold, blue glow of the TV. There is no fire in the fireplace--those flames flickered out when my time with Chad ended.

 

Although it's difficult, I feel as if I'm finally able to handle these memories. Unfortunately, that leaves me totally unprepared when something deep down inside yells, 'HOLD ON, HERE IT COMES.' Then, like a 50 foot tall tidal wave that comes roaring toward and crashing onto the beach where I'm standing, the last year's worth of remembered images, sensations, emotions, and sounds of Chad and me together come flooding back.

 

I lean against the wall and hold onto the corner while all the memories of Chad and me ruthlessly batter my mind, body, and soul. Not only do they toss and turn me, nearly drowning me as they bash into me over and over again, but they also call out things like 'You'll always finish last' and 'No one wants you, you old fag.' Mentally I succeed in swimming to the top several times, thrashing around and gasping for air, only to get sucked back under by another set of memories which roll and bash into me and whisper something else I don't want to hear.

 

When I'm just about to give in, coughing and nearly drowning on my own tears, the survivalist part of my brain finally calms the emotional waters. The memories deposit me back onto the beach, alive but cold and shivering, aching all over, exhausted, and wondering how many more times I'll have to go through this before I can finally control them again.

 

I thought I had felt something push me forward into the room, and quickly I begin to understand how a brain preoccupied by emotions can completely consume a person. Without any memory of how I got here, I now find myself sitting on the couch, staring down at the last, unopened envelope from Chad. It sits there by itself on the coffee table, separate from the others which are in their own little, jumbled pile of paper and torn-open envelopes along with the DVDs.

 

After blowing my nose on tissues from the box on the corner of the table, I reach down, touch the letter, and wonder what it says. I pick it up, flip it over to the back, and run my fingers across the bold-lettered admonition, "Don't even think about it," that Chad had written there. I chuckle when I think about how well he really knows me, but the pain in my throat returns when I think that no letter will ever take the place of the real, warm, breathing human body whose touch I already miss so much.

 

I slowly slide my finger under the sealed edge of the envelope, rip it open, then pull out the letter. After putting the envelope in the pile with the others, I open the letter slowly and read it.

 

---

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

A small part of me laughs as I read the "rather than be you and ramble too much longer," because he's written more than I ever expected, way more than he usually writes or says. Another small part of me wonders how he knew about my reaction to the empty fireplace. And yet another small part of me feels deeply honored that my love for him helped him get through those tough nights after his divorce.

 

But most of me just hurts as I stare through my tears at the "LOVE YOU ALWAYS" written in bold letters from edge to edge across the bottom of the page. As I run my fingers over the words, I can feel the deep indentations that the letters make in the paper. He had pressed hard and overwritten them three or four times to let me know the importance of these three simple words.

 

Although it's only a letter, I quickly realize that it's yet another ending in our relationship. What hurts the most is that I hear Chad's voice in my head saying those three words to me as I read them again and again. In this letter alone, Chad has found a way to say "I love you" before me, after me, and at the same time. Part of me is frustrated with all of it and part of me feels powerless and all alone when I realize that I can't reply to him. So I quietly and shakily say up into the air of the cabin, "I love you too, Chad," somehow hoping that some angel somewhere will carry the message to him.

 

After even more tears and mentally beating myself up some more, a small part of me quietly says, 'It's time to move on. It's time to put these memories away for a while.' So I put down the letter on the table, then look up and try to control my thoughts and emotions.

 

But when I look up, there it sits--the constant reminder that the fire between Chad and me is out. The fireplace in the center of the room is dark and quiet. There are a few cinders left on the grate, charred black from the fire that burned hotly when he was here. As I look at them now, I wish that we could get back together and build a new fire, but part of me somehow knows this separation is permanent. There will be no phoenix from these ashes, because our paths have now diverged and I'm headed in a different, and unknown, direction from Chad.

 

I take three or four deep breaths, letting the air out slowly each time. I remember slow, deep breaths as something my wife and I taught our kids to do when life got to be too tough for them. Then I have to chuckle when I remember the day our younger son, who was four years old at the time, went around the house all evening taking deep breaths. When my wife asked if life was so bad for him, why didn't he come talk to her about it.

 

As a typical four year old, he said something like, "Oh, life isn't bad. This just makes me feel like I'm floating on air" as he held his arms out and tore around the room like an airplane, but still taking deep breaths.

 

My initial reaction was one of "How do I tell my kid about hyperventilation and how it's not a good thing to do all the time?" But my wife handled it very easily. "Well, honey, if you do that all the time, then it won't work when you really need it."

 

With a smile and an "Okay," our little boy stopped the deep breathing. He continued to tear around the room with his arms stretched out, his lips now making buzzing airplane noises as he dive-bombed us on the couch. My wife and I laughed and laughed that afternoon when our older boy joined the younger one, both tearing around the room like airplanes, both of them dive-bombing us on the couch, and both of them tickling us while we tickled them in return.

 

As the memory slowly fades, I feel the tears cooling on my face once again. Life is so much different now. Back then I used to think how hectic it was and how I was missing out on so many other things at work and outside my family. But as I keep rediscovering time and time again, the "important things" were my wife and kids and the times I spent with them. That thought, along with all the problems of this week, further reinforce what I already know: those times really were the best times of my life.

 

The sound of a motorcycle from outside breaks into my thoughts, and I happen to look down at my watch. It takes a couple of seconds, but I finally get an "Oh shit" moment when I figure out that it's 5:45 and I have less than fifteen minutes to get ready and meet Jeff. I quickly move to the suitcase to get clean clothes, then make my way to the bathroom.

 

Hot water running over the top of my head and down my body, followed by shampoo on top and soap all over the rest, washes away the dust and helps me feel somewhat sane again. The pulsing of the water lightly massages my body, while the heat chases away the chill of the hike. Actually the chill probably isn't from the hike. It's probably from getting lost in my own thoughts for too long, first near the front door, then later while sitting on the couch reading and thinking about Chad's letter.

 

The comfort of that warm, wet cocoon tempts me to stay longer, but I regretfully shut it off and get out to dry myself with a towel. In the dry mountain air, it doesn't take long to be completely dry. Then I put on clean underwear, a relatively new pair of jeans, which are still dark blue, and one of my nicer, white, button-down shirts. Finally I add black socks and a nice pair of black loafers, then top it all off with my own well-worn and comfortable, black leather jacket. I haven't worn it yet this trip and had forgotten about how warm and special it makes me feel.

 

Before I walk out the door, I take one last look at myself in the bathroom mirror. For my age, I think I'm doing pretty well. I'm decently good looking, moderately tall and, thanks to Chad's persistence earlier this year, I've got a good build. Unfortunately, there's more gray hair on the temples than I'd like, but the rest is still thick and has a nice medium brown color. As I run my fingers over the brownish beard which I've been growing since I started this trip, I think I should have shaved it to get rid of the gray that's beginning to show there, too. But there hadn't been enough time this evening, so I make plans to shave it in the morning.

 

I grab my cabin key and walk out the door. The click as the door closes lets me know that I don't have to think about Chad for a while. Then I stop and chuckle a little. Standing here I realize that outside this cabin, my world revolves around Jeff, at least for the moment. But on the other side of the door, inside the cabin, my world still revolves around Chad, or more appropriately, the memories of Chad.

 

Unlike the time after my wife and kids passing, this time the line between the past and my current world is very clear. I'm torn between the friendships and stability I already have on one coast--and the heart-breaking past that goes with it--or an unknown future on the opposite coast, possibly with Jeff but also possibly without him and more alone than ever before. Some would say the answer is obvious: face the unknown and make it what you need and want. But others would say stay on the current coast because you already know who and what are there. Either way, my life is destined for a major change, and major changes always leave me feeling uneasy about what's really going to happen next.

 

I take a couple of deep breaths to calm my nerves again and notice the smells of cedar and pine trees which are near the cabins. Then I look up into the twilight sky for the first star of the night. It takes a few more minutes for it to get dark enough to find one, but when I do, I wish for true happiness for Jeff and me. Unfortunately, the feeling I get after my wish is that true happiness for Jeff doesn't include me.

 

I turn and slowly make my way up the ramp toward Jeff's cabin door. As I get to the top, Jeff steps out, closes his door, then turns toward me and stops. When I see him, my first reaction is something like, 'He must have gotten the memo.' He's wearing a white button-down shirt, black leather jacket, new blue jeans, black cowboy boots, and the dark gray cowboy hat from last night.

 

While inside my brain I'm laughing about how we seemed to have dressed the same way, my body knows exactly how to react to the tall, broad, well-built and incredibly good-looking man about fifteen feet away from me. My heart accelerates some, my breathing gets shallow and unsteady, and, damn it, my face begins to flush. And to top it all off, the expanding part of my body in my jeans just below the belt buckle reminds me how much my body wants to explore his.

 

Jeff's deep chuckle quickly brings me back to reality. I look up to his eyes and see the mischievous gleam in them--damn, he knows what I'm thinking. My face flushes again knowing that I've been caught looking him over. But this time, rather than let his chuckle go unanswered, I make a fist, hold it close to my stomach, then stick out my middle finger.

 

He laughs loudly at the gesture, then steps down from the porch of his cabin and walks slowly over to me, stopping about two feet away. I know I'm in emotional trouble when the look on his face changes from the mischievous grin to the serious look I saw just before I went into my cabin about an hour ago.

 

I'm not quite prepared when Jeff slowly reaches up and touches my five-day-old beard with the back of his index finger, brushing from the sideburn on one side, down across the chin, and back up to the other sideburn, then reversing direction to brush across it slowly in the reverse direction. But it's when he quietly says, "You sure clean up nicely," that I suddenly find I can't seem to control all the emotions inside.

 

One part of me wants to push him backwards into his cabin, strip him naked, shove him onto the bed, and fuck him fast and deeply. But another part keeps interrupting these wild thoughts and reminding me about Mike and how he plays a part in this situation. As much as I want Jeff, I've never been one to take advantage of another person, especially when that person isn't here to defend himself. Basically, the whole situation just frustrates the hell out of me.

 

Unfortunately, I'm unable to control what I'm feeling and my body reacts for me. Tears well up in my eyes, and, as expected, my face flushes even more because now I look like a total wuss to this guy who's got it all together. But, as if he seems to understand the conflict and frustration I'm feeling inside, Jeff quietly says, "I've asked Mike to be here by 11 tomorrow morning. Then we can sort out all of these feelings we're both having."

 

Those gentle words along with the wistful, half-smile that crosses his face calms everything inside me, at least enough that soon I'm able to smile back at him. He reaches up with a thumb and gently wipes away the tears, then nods his head toward the lodge and says with a slight raspiness in his deep voice, "Let's go get dinner. It'll all be a little easier to handle after a good meal and a couple of beers."