Chapter Thirty

Fidgeting uncomfortably, I wiggle around in an aluminum folding chair in the basement of Westcoast First Assembly of God. Fluorescent lights bounce off the circle of members' foreheads, here on this Christmas Eve. I'm no stranger to these people any longer. However, what is different tonight, they're all celebrating milestones. I listen to each of them as they share their struggles with the holidays, and their victories, too. Three-year chips, seven-year chips, even a twenty for one fine-ass black woman with fierce leopard print heels.

My applause is genuine. I couldn't be happier for them, but it feels hollow for me. I'm back to square one, cashing in my progress for a lonely, white newcomer disc pilfered from a poker game set. Supposedly, the ten-year chips are made of graphite, and the twenty is made of Swarovski crystal. When my turn comes, I stand. And inhale a modest breath.

"Hi everyone," I say, practically in a whisper. "I'm Max, and I'm an alcoholic."

The group responds in unison, a chorus of acceptance and welcoming vibes. Yet it doesn't quell the shame burning in my chest. My sponsor sits idly by, staring up into my forlorn gaze as if I've even let him down. I've failed. And now I have nothing else left but to start over.

"You see, I know what most of you are feeling. The holidays, temptations that surpass those trays of cookies and almond toffee—the constant battle—" my words falter, feeling a lump in my throat. Quickly, I scan the group, taking in everyone's faces of those who understand what I'm saying. Some nod with understanding, others clicking their tongues with tacit agreement. "And as I look around, I'm so proud of you all for the progress you've made."

My shaky tone endures. "Unfortunately—" I stall. "I can't say the same for myself." Another pause gives me exactly two seconds of awkwardness to consider darting from the room, abandoning my sponsor and the entire symphony of commiserating souls.

No sooner do I continue when the back door squeaks open, and a male figure slips into the room. My heart sinks as I recognize it's Trevan Donoghue, the man I slept with across town. The loser who lied to me, who used me for his sick gay cravings. Rage bubbles up inside, but I push it down for the sake of this meeting. This isn't the time or place.

Shaking my head, I continue with my confession. "I relapsed," I affirm bitterly. "I threw away three thousand, six hundred and forty-seven days of sobriety."

The number seems unrealistic, but I have a counting app on my phone that keeps track in real time that serves as a testament to my failure. And in the same string of thoughts come vicious memories and sentiments intended for Trevan. Out of all the meetings in Seattle, he had to show up at this one. The irony is astonishing, especially since I initially kicked him out of my hotel room because he was a proponent of backsliding from time to time. But I can't let him distract me. My focus on recovery is the penultimate, finding my way back to the path I've strayed from.

"So now," I continue. "I have so much to be thankful for. And after this, I'm gonna try to get back the man whom destiny sent my way."

My legs shake as I step down from the podium. Roberta, the woman with twenty years of sobriety under her belt, stands up to close the meeting. "Does anyone else want to share before we wrap up?"

I shoot a perspicacious gaze back towards Trevan, who avoids looking straight at me. He rises from his chair while clearing his throat, raising his hand. "Hi, I'm Trevan—I'm an alcoholic—" he declares, glancing at me with a shameful and apologetic expression. "Sorry I'm late. I just wanted to do a check-in before I begin my holiday festivities."

As the group closes with the Serenity Prayer, something I've never truly felt comfortable with, I make my escape through the back door. However, Trevan follows closely behind, catching the door before it slams shut. All I want to do is go after Durango, and now I'm being forced to contend with another Ghost of Christmas Past. He stands there, shivering in the cold while his eyes fill with fear.

"Look, Trevan," I say, my finger jabbing towards him. The anger flares up again, fueled by the memory of his lies and trickery. But then I remember my own missteps, my failings this weekend. I soften my tone. "Sorry," I say, shoving my hands in my pockets to get warm.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he pleads. "I just wanted to say—I'm sorry for what happened last time. It was a messy situation, and I was in a terrible place."

I allow a deep breath to cleanse my lungs, the words tumbling out now. "My life has changed so much since then," I affirm. "There's someone special in my life now, and someone I need to make things right with."

Trevan relaxes slightly, a hesitant smile forming on his face. "Oh, so you're not going to knock me out?"

A chuckle plays at my lips. "God, no. I wish you all the best," I offer. "I hope you find the happiness you deserve, especially if you're struggling with your sexuality. Having kids and a wife and then realizing who you truly are—it can't be easy—" my head wavers as I place my hand on his shoulder. "You deserve to be happy, and I hope you find it."

"Something like that, yeah," Trevan replies with a hint of sadness in his gaze.

I lower my hand, offering it to him with a shake. "Truce?"

He smiles warmly. "Absolutely."

Mending this fence gives me confidence that I can do the same with Durango. I just hope it's not too late.

The walk to my car feels like a lifetime, each footfall heavy with doubt and regret. However, as I approach it, hope ignites within me once again. Maybe my plan will work. Even though doubt lingers just beneath the surface of my optimism. Is he too angry? What if he refuses to talk to me? Worse, what if he's hurt physically, or emotionally? Notions that he'd suffered because of my outburst send a chill down my spine. And it's not at all from this frigid winter.

Seattle traffic is a nightmare on a good day. At the holidays, it's a cacophony of stop-and-go nonsense. My impatience grows with each delay, but I'm able to remain as calm as I can. You gotta be patient, Max. You must make things right. I decide the best option would be to head straight to Durango's house. He still hasn't put it on the market. And I have a key if worse comes to worse, and he doesn't answer. I need him to understand that my outburst wasn't about him; it was about the pain I've been carrying for so long.

My plan to change is progressing. I'm going to find a therapist, stay sober, and embrace life as it comes. Healthier coping mechanisms abound, all without resorting to my old habits. Even as I make these plans, a nagging doubt remains. Can I really change? Am I strong enough?

Surely Durango, with his psychology background, will understand. He'll see my initiative, a willingness to change. Perhaps he'll even be proud of me for taking these steps, acknowledging the work I need to do for myself, and Lily Bean, and our future together. The notion buoys me as I drive through his neighborhood, Christmas lights dancing to various rhythms in the distance.

His car isn't in the driveway, which fills me with an abundance of sorrow. Perhaps Jake took his car for some reason? A surge of nerves rushes through me as I jump out, my feet barely touching the ground as I race up to the front porch. Key or doorbell? I hesitate, unsure if he's even truly at home. Using my key would cross a line. But ringing the doorbell feels too formal and rather distant. Either way, impatience wins out. I jab the doorbell repeatedly, my anxiety getting the best of me.

To be honest, the butterflies haven't eased up since I left my AA meeting. Doubt haggles with me as I remain on the step, counting the warm breaths leaving my lungs. But another voice, a stronger one, tells me to fight for this. To fight for Durango, for our love, and for the future we can have together. I take another deep breath, steeling myself for whatever lies ahead. This is our chance—my chance—to prove that my love for him is stronger than any vice on this planet.

My heart falls over, much like the abandoned bicycle left at the curb by my Porsche. The fact that Durango wasn't home shouldn't be surprising. But there was a seedling of hope planted inside me as I pulled into this goddamned neighborhood that he'd be here. I turn over the ignition as the smell of cold leather overwhelms my senses, and an uninviting notion is that he's out celebrating Christmas Eve with his son, without Lily and me by their side.

The streets of Seattle blur as I drive, each turn serving a twist of the knife into my already wounded soul. As the flurries batter against my windshield, I try to remain focused on the road. However, the ravines in my mind are drying with failed expectations—and it's all my fault. Regret, anger, and self-loathing course through me while I cross the L.V. Murrow Bridge on my return to Lily and Melanie. And Mom. Fuck. How could I forget about her?

My radio boasts melodies of cheer and Christmas spirit, a cruel mockery of my current state. I know I need to change my tune before stepping a single foot in the house. Lily will be attacking my ankles like an excited puppy, and there's no way I can appear sad on one of her favorite nights of the year. The next song to play isn't a carol. It's another easily recognizable song—one that hasn't played since the night Brogan died. Our wedding song.

Now this is a major gut punch, a reminder of the life I've shattered. Tears well up, blurring my vision as the lyrics twist into an agonizing show of defeat. I slam my fist against the steering wheel in a futile attempt to silence the torture. But it won't budge. It just won't fucking let up.

"God damn it!" I shout throughout the car.

Another half-hour later has me pulling into the neighborhood, then up to our security gate. I punch the code, watching the iron bars unfurl before me. Now is the moment to dry my eyes and put on a cheerful face for Lily's sake. This night must go off without a hitch. At least another one, that is. Our tiny mansion looms ahead at the precipice of my winding driveway. That's when I see him, Durango, standing at the entrance to the multi-car garage, looking off into the darkened Seattle night sky, holding a bouquet of tiger lilies. He's here. He's actually fucking here.

A mixture of joy and terror crashes against the tides of my essence as I place the car in park. But the power of my actions crashes down, crushing the hope before it can fully bloom. I'm a broken man, unworthy of his love and his forgiveness. These thoughts harangue me with each footfall as Durango turns around, searching for my gaze. Then, finally, the entire world takes on a different hue. The smile on his face, an example of resilience and hope, is evidence that all isn't lost after all.

His arms envelop me with warmth, the sanctuary I've desperately sought after the past several hours. Tears stream down my face as I feel his hand on my back, the same way Brogan touched me. It's a sensation I haven't felt in months, but I'm not complaining.

"I'm so sorry, Durango," I choke out, the words hardly even intelligible.

He pulls back slightly, his gaze searching mine with an intensity that both scares and soothes me. "Shhh, I know you are. I already forgive you."

My head wavers. "Not without hearing what I have to say."

His gentleness ushers another warm tickle down my spine. "I already know what you're gonna say, babe," he affirms, patting my back. "And I support you the entire way."

Confusion washes over me. "Wait, what? How do you know?"

Durango holds the bouquet between us, their vibrant orange contrasting beautifully against the fading light. It is, after all, Brogan's favorite flower. The entire foundation where Lily's name is deeply rooted. Suddenly, a chill courses through me, and with it, a memory that transcends the boundaries of time.

Brogan stands motionless, shock riddling his face as I express my deep remorse for bumping into him with an open cup of Pepsi. That burgundy shirt drenched in a sticky sweetness of carbonated water and corn syrup that's responsible for our paths crossing.

My mind draws a blank as I come to, realizing in this moment that the color of Durango's shirt resembles the same color as Brogan's from our chance encounter. It's a surreal moment, a series of coincidences that feel like something more. The universe is speaking to me, weaving a canvas of signs and symbols that I simply cannot ignore any longer. It's as if Brogan is orchestrating this reunion from beyond the grave, guiding me back to the lighthouse over Sag Harbor as the two ships converge.

Durango's eyes twinkle under the lamplight of our driveway, locking stares with me. "Because I took a nap earlier, and Brogan—your Brogan—came to me in a dream." The tears streaming down his face are no match for the stoic giant that he is. "He told me what to do—that you were sorry—and exactly how you planned to make everything right." He takes a pause for him to catch his breath, wiping away his tears in the process.

His explanation continues. "And I already forgive you—but—" his words grow shaky as he drops to one knee. "But you have to promise to spend the rest of your life with me."

My spirits soar in a melody of joy, yet disbelief. This is it, the validation that I've been craving. Brogan really visited Durango in a dream. There's no mistaking it—confirmation that our love is real, and it's meant to be.

More salted rivers glide down my cheek, but this time they're of a happier variety. Of pure relief, unadulterated love. I reach out my trembling hand to take his.

"Yes," I mutter, overflowing with emotion. "I mean, I want nothing else but that, Durango Walters."