Chapter_29_Apr_s_Ski

September 21, 2017

Dear Wyatt,

It’s been a few months since I last wrote to you and your brother. All is well here but it’s been awfully hot lately.

I’ve decided to retire from the casino as my back has been stiffening up more than usual and my legs have been getting weaker. I’m trying to exercise but it’s been a challenge lately. I don’t recommend getting old like me. I’m going to try and relax and have a swim in the pool this afternoon.

I don’t suppose you’re getting my letters. Or maybe you are and just don’t care to write back. As always, my invitation to come visit me in Las Vegas still stands if you ever find yourself out here.

Xoxo

Dad

P.S. I know calling myself Dad to you boys is presumptuous but “Richard” was starting to feel too formal.

“Let’s not go to Palm Springs just yet,” I say to Biz the next morning in bed, holding a freshly brewed cup of espresso I made in our little kitchen in one hand and my father’s letter in the other.

This is the first time in a while that I’ve decided I want to go off script and do something that I haven’t planned out.

I am, for once, winging it on my own terms.

Biz sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He takes a second for himself, massaging his temples. We’re both hungover but not in a terrible way; a mix of champagne, red wine and regret that we were caught doing it in Patrick’s office. “I’m listening,” he says, interested to hear more but cautious. He eyes my letter and climbs out of bed to make his own coffee.

While I’m sure Biz really wants to spend a week with our fellow gays in the desert like we had planned, he seems intrigued and a little excited that I want to do something spur of the moment for once. “What would you want to do instead?” he asks.

I stand and open the curtains, the sun revealing our well-appointed guest cottage. I squint and see the worker bees outside already deconstructing the white tent and round tables.

“I think I want to go to Las Vegas,” I say, still marinating the idea in my head.

“You’re so not a Vegas person but that could be a blast.” Biz fumbles with the unfamiliar and complicated espresso maker. “How does this even work?”

“I know, I’ve only been to Las Vegas once to direct a Skittles commercial,” I say. Staying at a hotel in Vegas is not a fun place to wake up at five in the morning to direct a shoot. There’s nothing like seeing drunk people, still out from the night before, stumble around a casino like gambling zombies while you’re freshly showered on your way to work. “You have to lift the lever thing,” I instruct Biz on the espresso maker.

On the other end of the spectrum, Biz went to Vegas a lot when he lived in LA; mostly weekend benders with his fellow cool Disney pals with their fake IDs where they stayed up partying for forty-eight hours, the details of which are still fuzzy.

The espresso machine spits out that sweet brown nectar for Biz.

“The baby is due in twenty-eight days,” I say. “Maybe we do Vegas and Palm Springs. Do like three or four days in each city. Plus it would be nice to split up the drive.”

“I’m down for that.” Biz sips his espresso. “We could see an illusionist! Or maybe an all-male strip show? Those are so gross but fun. Or the Ferris wheel? Or we could like play blackjack while we skydive into a Michelin-star restaurant.”

I tellingly don’t acknowledge any of Biz’s ideas. “We can play it by ear.” I expertly make myself another espresso.

Biz sits on the sectional sofa. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You just said you want to play something by ear. That’s not your thing. That’s my thing,” Biz says, detecting something is off. “Did you have something else in mind in Vegas?”

My nervous hand grabs the worn letter off the bed. “His return address has changed a few times on the letters but on the most recent ones it’s stayed the same. He lives outside the Vegas Strip.” I hand the letter to Biz, who reads it. “He’s said in a few letters that I can find him whenever I’m ready.”

“Wow,” Biz says, studying one of my father’s handwritten letters for the first time. “Good penmanship.”

“Definitely someone who appreciates order and straight lines.”

“Like you,” Biz says. He looks up at me. “Are you ready?”

I half nod. “If I’m ever going to do it, I might as well do it now. Before the baby comes and we’re too preoccupied,” I say. “Plus, seeing him again will be a good lesson in what not to do with our own child.”

A smile contorts on Biz’s lips. “Vegas, here we come,” he says. I sit up next to him on the couch as we both quietly reread the letter between us.

On our way out of Evergreen, after an elaborate Star Wars–themed brunch with the newlyweds, Biz fixates on the wedding. “I just can’t believe Patrick and Nathan’s whole weekend was based on a movie franchise.”

Biz and I know there’s a tinge of wedding envy still lingering.

“I’ve never understood your burning desire to get married,” I say, trying not to sweep this topic under the rug for once. “We’re life partners, committed to staying together and raising a baby. Do you really need the legal piece of paper and validation from the world?”

“You don’t get it,” Biz says dismissively.

“Get what?” I ask. Biz just shakes his head. “Seriously, enlighten me,” I say.

“It’s okay. You don’t want to get married and I do. It breaks my heart but it’s something I’ll have to be okay with,” Biz says.

“But why is it so important to you?” I ask again.

Biz sighs. “It’s symbolic. It’s telling the world you’re committed to each other. It bonds us in a deeper way. It gave my parents a more meaningful connection and it’s always something I’ve wanted to emulate.”

“I totally get that,” I say, turning to Biz. “I have been thinking about it, just so you know,” I offer.

“You have?” Biz looks up from his phone with a crooked smile.

“Of course. After we decided on our egg donor, I was looking into wedding venues. I mean, I don’t personally need to get married but I know how important it is to you,” I say.

Biz deflates. “Such a romantic,” he jokes.

“No, seriously. I’ve been thinking maybe I shouldn’t let my parents’ separation define me. Maybe I don’t know what I’m missing by us not getting married,” I say.

Biz turns to me with a smile. We both leave it there and let some music take us away.

A few hours later we’ve listened to every album of every female singer-songwriter pop star who’s ever walked the earth and highlights from a dozen short-lived original Broadway cast albums. After hearing the camp-errific Diana: The Musical with Princess Diana singing, “Harry, my ginger-haired son, you’ll always be second to none...” even Biz knows it’s time to move on to something else.

“How about a murder podcast?” Biz suggests.

“Whaddaya got?” I ask.

Biz scrolls through his phone, rattling off a few true crime options.

“A Laci Peterson Murder Update?” Biz suggests.

“Too overexposed,” I say.

“The Notorious Brides in the Bath Murders?”

“What year?”

“Early nineteen hundreds.”

“Too old.”

“The Shaker Heights Shoplifters?”

“Too low stakes.”

“The Burger Chef Murders?”

“We’ve heard that one!” we both realize together.

“The Murder of Girly Chew Hossencofft?”

“Sounds weird and promising.”

“Oh, wait—it has UFO conspiracies and light cannibalism.”

“Hard pass.”

“The Honolulu Strangler?”

“I don’t want to think of Hawaii in a bad light.”

“Do we only want murder?”

“Preferably, yes.”

“What kind? Give me a ballpark.”

“It should be an unpredictable murder within the last ten years, but nothing too graphic, and it has to have several red herrings and ultimately solved with the serial killer getting a life sentence with no parole or worse, but then the epilogue has a twist that we never saw coming.” I turn to Biz and say in a dramatic whisper, “Or did we?”

“Okay, that’s not specific at all. Let’s see...” Biz scrolls more on his phone. It’s not long before we settle into the cozy, soothing sounds of two determined Gen Z podcasters trying to solve a recent murder that took place in a small town in Vermont where the owner of a year-round Christmas-themed gift shop goes missing.

The extremely detailed episodes are a chance for me to dip in and out of paying attention, letting my mind wander. But I perk up when I hear the podcast host say, “Maggie had a ton of support from her friends, family... even her dog.” I can’t help but tear up a little, thinking of my own life with Biz. Things aren’t perfect between us right now but I still feel lucky.

My tiny burst of emotion surprises me. I never would’ve thought a twenty-something woman talking about a Christmas store stalker could make me appreciate my own relationship.

Spending time in the state where Biz and I met, the memories of our first night come flooding back. It was Gay Ski Week in Aspen, the winter after I graduated college. Patrick and I were each other’s wingman.

It was our first day of skiing and the mountain air was fresh as we sliced up all the double black diamonds we could find.

Afterward, we met at the bottom of the mountain for a hearty lunch of burgers, truffle fries and beers. I wanted to keep hitting the same trails we’d found but Patrick wanted to nap before the big dance party that night.

It was something called the Gear Party. “Wear your leather gear, snow gear or sports gear for this sexy blowout dance party!!!” the poster screamed. Patrick was all about his newly purchased leather harness, and I showed up in ski pants, suspenders, snow goggles around my neck and an obligatory tight T-shirt.

Once we arrived, Patrick, who kept saying he desperately needed me as his wingman, immediately found someone. This was way before he met the love of his life. “That guy’s so handsome,” Patrick nodded toward a group of random guys.

I looked at the group and spotted one guy that made me think, My life is about to change. He had a one-in-a-million friendly face, a few days’ scruff with a fresh haircut and perfect everything. His friends were laughing at something this guy just said, all of them doubling over with giggle fits, in their own world on the dance floor. I was entranced.

“The one on the right?” I asked.

“No. The one on the left,” Patrick said to my relief. Before I knew it, Patrick had abandoned me and leapt onto the dance floor with the guy he thought was cute. I didn’t even get to clock in for my job as a wingman.

The guy I had my eye on disappeared, so I wandered the periphery of the dance floor, feeling ridiculous in my ski gear getup.

When a dance remix came on, the room was electrified. Depeche Mode’s Dave Gahan belted out that he was taking a ride with his best friend and he hopes he never lets him down again.

That’s when I spotted the guy again. Right next to me.

This guy turned to me with his forest green eyes. For a second, it was like the music and crowd noise went silent. It felt like the song was speaking directly to the two of us. We grinned at the irony of the song lyrics. Maybe the line wasn’t ironic as much it was a prediction. I could fall in love with this guy, I immediately thought.

We introduced ourselves. “What kind of name is Biz?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you when we get to know each other more,” he promised.

A warm glow took over me. “Did you have fun skiing today?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t ski. I’m afraid of heights. And speed. And people skiing into me from behind. I’m all about the après ski. I’m just here for the cozy sweaters and hot cocoa by the fireplace,” Biz said.

I laughed, charmed by this romantic, sweet guy. We immediately found that luck was on our side after he asked where I was from.

“You live in New York? I live in New York!” he shouted over the music.

When we were back in the city, we quickly started dating and never stopped. It was magical and miraculous to both of us that we met and hit it off clear across the country.

Back in the car, I spot a sign ahead that reads, “ASPEN CITY LIMIT.” Here we are now, passing through that little corner of the state where it all began.

“Just like Depeche Mode said, I’m taking a ride with my best friend,” I say out loud, knowing how corny it sounds but I mean it. The lyrics ring true then and now.

I look over at Biz, and while I’m trying to connect over our song, our town, our first moment, I see that he’s completely asleep.

So much for hoping he never lets me down again.

A moment before we pass the Aspen City Limits sign, Biz wakes up, leans over and gives me a sleepy kiss on the lips. “Happy Town We Met In,” he says, gripping my thigh before snuggling himself back to sleep. I drive with a smile on my face.