Chapter 12 – Chapter 12

Part Twleve

Michelle and I quietly divorced that Fall. We sold the house. I bought each of us an apartment in Cherry Creek. I agreed to make monthly payments for four years, the same amount of time we had been married.

I was bearing down on fifty. I was thrice divorced and alone.

I had stopped sleeping with Lin. It was base and not enough.

It had been seven years since I had seen Mace, but he was all I could think about. I saw him in every blonde head, in every wry smile.

I wanted to take my son's advice and see if I could accept what I had rejected, but I had no idea how. Or if I should. Part of me thought that ship had sailed, Mace had Juan, and I should leave them alone, not try to disrupt what I could have had.

Another part of me thought back to that dark bedroom in the back of a sublet apartment in University City, to when it was just the two of us, to when there was so much love it swept away caution and convention and expectation and fear. It was just the Carrot and Josie, two boys in love.

"You're still afraid," my son told me during our weekly telephone call.

"I do not think so. I am trying not to figure out the right thing to do."

"I don't think so. You're fretting. You're afraid he might say no. You're even more afraid he might say yes."

"What if he says no?"

"Then you'll feel the pain he felt when you didn't choose him. It'll hurt. But, you'll get it over. And you'll move on. And you won't have to spend the rest of your life wondering what he would have said if you had offered yourself to him."

"What if he says yes?"

"Then you'll get to find out if you can grow old with him, finally happy, finally real."

"When did you get so smart?"

"I've always been smart. I'm at Yale. On my own. Not as a legacy."

He was right. He had refused to let me help him. He had earned his way in as a student, not as a legacy. And, he was thriving.

He was not a member of the Tory Club. He was more Socialist than Tory. He was majoring in Economics, because he wanted understood how the elite ran the world. Not to join them. To take them down.

He was in love with Charles, a Sudanese man he met as I drove away from New Haven. They were on the same floor in the Silliman, my old college. They bumped into each other in the hallway. It was love at first sight. They quickly traded roommates and had been living together the entire year.

I met Charles over Christmas. Chet – I could never remember to call him John – brought him out to ski. We rented a house in Vail and spent a week there.

Charles was taller and leaner than Chet. His skin was a deep, rich brown. His eyes were black. He kept his hair extremely tight. His face was angular. He was pretty, in the way some men are. The beauty of his skin and the angles of his face reminded me of Grace Jones.

He was lean and muscled from football (theirs, not ours) and running. He spoke the Queen's English in a deep, resonant voice.

His family had moved from the Sudan when he was thirteen and they figured out he was gay. They feared persecution. And AIDS.

Charles and Chet reminded me of Mace and me. When they looked at each other, love poured out. Charles looked at Chet like he was a marvel, a revelation. Chet looked at Charles like he was his favorite thing ever.

I wanted to be young again, to know then what I knew now. I wanted to be 25 in 2015, not in 1990. I wanted Mace back.

I settled on a grand gesture. I researched San Blas, where we had spent those careless weeks in 1991 and 1992, when every day was filled with possibility. Our beachfront hotel was still open. From what I could see online, San Blas had not changed much in the decades since our last visit. The new century had not reached that far into Mexico.

I would turn fifty on February 17. I bought a flight from Denver to Mazatlan for February 16. I bought a flight from San Diego to Mazatlan for the same day. I would land three hours before Mace, if he came.

I asked Mace via email for his address. It was almost Christmas. He would think it was to send a card.

I printed the itinerary, folded it neatly, and put it in an envelope. I added a simple note.

Carrot:

It has been too long.

I am not a fool anymore.

I want to spend (at least) my 50th birthday with you.

Come at once.

LIAB, Tons, A&F

Josie

I knew he would get the "Come at once" reference. It was from Wodehouse, which we used to read to each other. Once upon a time.

I knew Mace knew I did not want him to tell me in advance if he was coming or not. It was not the way we were.

I was a jumble of nerves as I traveled south on February 16. Over the past six weeks, I had alternated between convincing myself Mace would show and convincing myself he would not. My tergiversations varied by day and mood.

Chet was giddy. He liked that I was uncertain and vulnerable. He also liked the grand gesture. He was certain Mace would show. He was certain the story could not end any other way.

I was at the gate for Mace's flight, shifting nervously from foot to foot. I watched the plane taxi in and stop. It seemed like months before a passenger emerged. I had bought a first class ticket, so – if he was on the flight – he would be one of the first passengers off.

My hope ebbed as passenger after passenger deplaned. There were too many. Families came out. First class had to be empty. I was crushed. I had bought into the fairy tale.

Just as I was about to turn and leave, Mace was at the door, still looking very much like Keith Urban. When he saw me, he beamed. When I saw him, I soared. I ran to him, wrapped my arms around him, and kissed him with all that I had. I did not care who saw.

"Oh my God, Mace. So many people had gotten off. I thought you were not coming."

"I traded my seat. I allowed that elderly Mexican woman to take my first class seat and I took her seat, in the back of coach."

"Of course you did," I said. Of course he had. He was always so Mace.

I was smiling so hard I thought my face would crack. I was so full of hope and love I thought I might explode.

I pulled Mace into me. I wanted to forge us into one. He was far more solid than I remembered.

My phone buzzed. It was Chet, texting.

"Well?"

"Yep."

":)"

As we drove south to Tepic and then west to San Blas, I learned there had been no drama in San Diego upon the receipt of my invitation. Mace had not chosen me over Juan. In fact, Juan had moved with their boys to Bogota almost a year earlier. Juan was doctoring in his parents' former clinic, convinced he needed to give something back to his homeland. The boys were enrolled in the National University, having decided they wanted to return to their homeland to finish their education.

Juan and Mace were still married, but they did not see each other much. In their year apart, Mace had made three trips to Bogota. Juan had not returned to the states.

Mace had gone into their marriage wanting the traditional idyll of fidelity and monogamy. Juan had not, believing they were unnatural states forced upon people to subvert desire and any unintended consequences of that desire. Juan had given in to Mace's ideals for the first part of their marriage, and Mace had given in to Juan's for the more recent part. Mace liked Juan's ideals better; they were easier to achieve.

As we drove, the seven years since I had last seen him and the twenty-two years since I had wounded him evanesced. Like a favorite old sweater at the bottom of a cedar chest, "Mace and John" had simply been misplaced. Rediscovered, we fit each other comfortably and warmly.

It was late when we checked into our hotel and settled into our room. It had been a long day of travel.

Mace wanted to rinse the day off. He returned from the shower wrapped only in a towel. He had been busy. His muscles rippled. His body fat was non-existent.

I had not been so disciplined. As I almost always had, I was carrying at least ten pounds I did not want.

Mace dropped the towel and slid into bed. We kissed. It was magic, just like it always had been.

I pulled away and told Mace I was going to shower. When I was finished, he was asleep on his left side, curled into a ball. I pulled the sheet over us and slid in behind him. We slept with the light on.

I awoke first on my birthday. I was officially fifty years old. I felt like I was half that, getting a second chance. I felt like I had been halfway around the board and sent back to "go."

I watched Mace sleep. He looked at peace and untroubled. I marveled at the beauty of him. I cringed at what I had missed. Half my life had passed without him.

I kissed his shoulder and tickled his side. "Mace," I said. "Wake up, baby."

He squinted and opened his eyes. "Don't ever call me baby again. It's one of my pet peeves. I'm not a baby. I'm a man. I hate when lovers call each other baby. It makes me cringe."

"Is that what we are, lovers?"

"I assume that's what this is about."

"Then wake up. I want my birthday present."

He rolled onto his back, his face under mine. "I'm here. You already got your present."

I kissed him. As it had so many years ago, lightning struck and thunder rolled as our tongues lashed.

When we broke, I assured him I had never stopped loving him. He assured me the same. "That's what always and forever means," he reminded me.

We had traveled a long way to spend the week in bed, but that is basically what we did. We had a lot of time for which we had to make up.

We had both gotten much better at same-sex sex. San Blas was magical. There was little we did not do or, at least, try.

The few times we ventured to the beach, we either had sex in the water or rushed back to our room, one of us so hungry for the other that we could not wait. In one of our encounters in the water, it had to be clear what we were doing. Mace was floating on his back, his trunks off and covering his crotch. I was standing between his legs, holding them. I was inside of him as he pretended to float. I could not fuck him, so he worked me with his muscles. By the time I pulled out and jacked my cum into the water, Mace was laughing so hard I feared he would drown.

Our last night, we went for a walk on the beach. We were holding hands. Mace, never one to mince words, asked "What's next?"

"I think you should divorce Juan and move to Denver."

"I'm not going to divorce Juan. And, I'm not going to move to Denver."

"You have to divorce Juan to marry me."

"Who said anything about marrying you?"

I was taken aback. I thought we were both in the same spot, for the first time ever. We apparently were not.

We talked it through. As we talked, it was clear that Mace deeply, truly love Juan. I was taken aback.

We decided Mace would tell Juan that we had reconnected and then leave it to him. If Juan wanted a divorce, he would have one. If he did not, he would not, and Mace would continue to visit Juan a couple of times a year, unless and until Juan decided to return to the States. Mace and I would visit each other in the meantime.

It was not ideal, and it was not what I had expected. But, it was all I could have, and I had no standing to demand more. I had forfeited that years ago.

Mace reported back. Juan did not want a divorce. His parents had been married his whole life, and he wanted his children's parents to be married their whole life. And, regardless of where he was and what he was doing, he loved Mace. Of course he did.

Juan was not thrilled I was back, but told Mace he was not surprised. He had assumed, at some point, I would realize what I had missed and make a play. He was surprised only that it had taken me so long.

He did not think Mace would be able to say no. He was not sure he would say yes, but he was virtually sure he would say maybe.

I flew to San Diego every other Friday. Mace flew to Denver the weekends I was not in San Diego.

In the first year we were back to us, Mace traveled to Bogota once every four months. He was usually gone one week. We did not discuss Juan when he returned.

After his third trip, Mace told me Juan wanted me to join him on the next trip. I was skeptical.

"I think he wants to see if there is a long-term solution that works for everyone."

"There is. Divorce and re-marriage."

"Not everyone gets divorced as easily as you," Mace said, mocking me.

"Ouch," I responded, pretending not to be wounded.

Mace and I flew to Bogota together. Juan had a beautiful urban apartment that he had inherited from his parents. Mace's bag went to Juan's room. My bag went to a second bedroom.

Andres and Camilo joined us for dinner. Only eleven months apart, they looked like identical, stunning twins. They looked like the Colombian soccer player James, who had rocked the 2014 World Cup.

I knew through Mace that they were inseparable, best friends the way only identical twins usually are. He speculated that they would marry sisters or best friends in a joint wedding, live next door to each other, and have children within days of each other. Andres would never love his wife like he loved Camilo, and Camilo would never love his wife the way he loved Andres.

After Andres and Camilo returned to their dorm, we cleaned up, Juan and Mace went to their room, and I went to mine. The pecking order was being established. Juan was peacocking, or so I thought.

I was almost asleep when I heard a knock on my door. "Come in," I answered.

The door opened, and Juan and Mace stood there together. "We'd like you to join us," Mace said.

"Yes, please," Juan added.

I was stunned by what they were suggesting.

"It's the only way," Mace assured me.

If it was the only way, then it was the only way. I grabbed a pillow and shielded myself from them, just as I had so many years before from Mace. They moved apart to let me pass. Mace grabbed the pillow as I did and tossed it back on the bed.

Juan and Mace slipped their underwear off and joined me in the bed. I had never had a three-way. Once it was over, I could not believe what I had been missing.

I watched Juan and Mace kiss. I watched Mace work his way down Juan's hairy torso and take him in his mouth. Tentatively, I kissed Juan's soft lips while Mace worked his dick. I was surprised by how he kissed me back.

I felt Mace move to my dick. I felt Juan work Mace around so that Mace was in Juan's mouth and I was in Mace's mouth.

I worked Juan around so he was in my mouth.

Without discussing it, we all changed positions. We were all head to head, kissing, three tongues out and battling. Juan was in the middle, and he took Mace and me in each hand. Mace kissed Juan while I explored his chest and stomach hair. Juan pulled my arm over his face and smelled my armpit.

"Juan likes smells," Mace whispered. "A lot."

I buried my face in Juan's armpit and breathed deeply. "I see what he likes," I whispered. I sucked Juan's nipple and then turned my face to his dick. I laid my head on his abdomen and took his dick in my mouth. I had an overwhelming desire to make him come. I worked him hard as he and Mace continued to kiss. I felt him buck and come and then felt him release into my mouth. I went to the base and swallowed all he had.

I heard "John, I want you to fuck me." It did not come from Mace.

I maneuvered between Juan's legs. Mace handed me a condom and lube. I applied both and slipped inside of Juan while he and Mace continued to kiss.

Mace moved behind me and started massaging my cheeks and then eating my ass. I heard the tear of foil and the flip of a lid. I felt cold liquid and then a hard dick. Mace was going to fuck me while I fucked Juan.

It was more difficult than it seemed like it should have been. At first, I kept slipping out of Juan. Mace took over. "You move," he said. "Go slow, then speed up." He held my hips as I slid back and forth on him and in and out of Juan. I got into rhythm. I got lightheaded. Juan took himself in his hand and shared the rhythm. We all came together, Mace and I filling condoms and Juan covering his chest and stomach.

We were in Bogota a week. We spent every night and every morning like we had spent that first night.

I went with Mace to Bogota every three months for the next two years. We spent every visit like we had spent that first visit.

Epilogue

Andres and Camilo graduated and followed their father to UCSD's Medical School. Juan followed his sons back to the States, back to his house with Mace in San Diego.

Mace stopped visiting Denver every other weekend. I continued to visit San Diego. We all pitched in to add a second floor to their home. The entire floor was a master suite. It had a custom bed that easily accommodated three adults. It also had three bathrooms and three walk in closets. Finally, it had a sweeping view of the canyon and a deck from which to enjoy that view.

It was not what I expected when I was younger, imagining my life. Hell, it was not what I expected when Mace deplaned in San Blas, responding to my grand gesture.

If I had to take Juan to get Mace, then it was an easy decision for me. Finally.

In any event, I grew to love Juan. Not like I loved Mace, but I never loved anyone like I loved Mace. I never would.

We were happy when we were together. Mace was always in the middle. He was the fulcrum. Juan did not seem to mind, and neither did I.

We were not equals. Juan and I never acted without Mace. Juan and Mace often acted without me. Rarely, Mace and I acted without Juan, typically only if Juan was out of town.

After five years of flying back and forth, I retired and moved to San Diego to be with Mace. And with Juan.

It was clear to me that the pecking order remained. It was the Juan and Mace story. I was apart, orbiting around them. When I awoke in the middle of the night, Mace was usually curled up next to Juan, his hand resting in Juan's chest hair. The tie that bound Mace to me remained, but it was not nearly as strong as the tie that bound Juan and Mace. I had been arrogant to think I could waltz back into Mace's life and undo what he had spent decades doing.

Without announcement or discussion, I moved out of the Master Suite. There was enough room for all of us, but not enough Mace for me. I got only what Juan did not need or want.

Choices have consequences. I had flubbed the only two decisions I faced that mattered, the first when Mace asked whether I would marry him, and the second when Randy said simply "just say the word." I would have given anything to travel back in time, to whisper in my younger self's ear that what my younger self thought mattered did not, that all that mattered was love and the strength it provided, that when you find true love, you should hold onto it for dear life, no matter what. I could not time travel. I could only deal with the consequences of my choices. As I lay awake at night, alone in my separate room, I wondered about what might have been, the words of George Jones's "Choices" echoed in my ears. I was living and dying with the choices I had made.

If I had been stronger, I would have moved on and out of their house. But, I was getting old, and the intimate moments we all shared – over dinner, on a walk, around a fire – were more important to me now. Or so I convinced myself.

I also remained weak. I did not have the strength to leave Mace again.

Every once in awhile, I caught Mace watching me. In those moments, when everyone else receded and it was he just he and I, I knew, or hoped I knew, he was wondering what I was always wondering . . . What if.

Andres and Camilo are both surgeons. They are each married to blonde haired, blue eyed American women. They live next door to each other. They each have two boys, ages 4 and 2. All four of them call me Uncle John. The pecking order persists.

Chet and Charles are still together. They are in the Sudan, trying day by day to clear Africa of corruption and to save the world. They will fail, but they will die trying. Happily.

They have adopted six orphans, four of whom are HIV+. They are both big-hearted, committed socialists, and they will keep going so long as there are orphans, especially orphans with "the hiv."

With the help of various governments, we fund their lives. We have been remarkably successful. One Doctor and two lawyers mean we have money to burn. We send it to Africa to save orphans instead of burning it.

I visit Chet and Charles for a month every winter. Last year, Mace came along. Juan was taking the boys and their children to Colombia to meet or visit his extended family. Colombia had come a long way, but not so far that was welcome in Juan's family.

For a month in the Sudan, it was just Mace and I, like it was so long ago in that back bedroom on Tulane, when I had no idea what the contours and shapes of "always and forever" could or would be or could or would mean.

As we talked and walked, hand in hand, I felt like the "Mace and John" story was the main storyline, like Juan was the secondary character, not me. It was the favorite month of my life, me, Mace, and my son. I felt like I was living the life I should have been living all along, if only I had not been weak.

But, I had been weak. And, my weakness had cost me.

If only I had not been weak, Mace and I would have had a life together. A full life.

If only I had not been weak, Mace and I would have children together. Our children.

If only I had not been weak, I would have Mace to myself as I entered the twilight of my life. I would have him, and only him, to hold my hand and to shepherd me home.

If only . . . .

Those two simple words, those three simple syllables, those six simple letters . . . . They haunt me and will continue to haunt me until nothing can haunt me anymore.

Until then, I will know.

If only, the lightning would have stayed in the bottle.

If only, always and forever would have been forever.

If only . . .