Jake
For the record, the “red building on the other side of the parking lot” is not a monstrosity. At least not in my opinion. But it is quite a bit bigger than the original stand. The railings leading up to the porch are swathed in garland, and ribbon, and twinkle lights. And when I open the door, it’s to the sound of sleigh bells.
Inside is a retail space stocked with candles and ornaments, ribbons and bows—basically all things Christmasy. I ask one of the sales clerks where Tony is and she directs me toward a hallway leading to the back of the building.
I find him in his office staring moodily at his computer. He has a pair of readers perched on his nose—giving him a nerdy professor look that’s super cute.
“Nice specs,” I say as I cross the room. “Are those new?”
“Yeah,” Tony murmurs. His cheeks color as he hurries to remove them—a damn shame, if you ask me. Although that blush he’s wearing now is pretty cute as well.
“What’re you—” he starts to say, stopping when I hold up the thermos and bag. His eyes widen into a look that I would’ve termed pre-orgasmic in other circumstances. “Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about,” he says as he grabs them from my hands. “Gimme.”
I settle into the chair on the other side of his desk and watch as he flips open the thermos and guzzles down at least half of it, then sighs and murmurs a heartfelt, “Thank you, God.”
“You should probably thank your mother, as well,” I mention, as he roots around in the bag.
“And thank you, Mom,” Tony murmurs obediently as he pulls out a package wrapped in foil, which turns out to contain two bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits. His reluctance is palpable as he holds them out and asks, “Do you want one?”
I’m almost tempted to mess with him by saying yes. But I behave myself. I shake my head and answer, “Nope. All yours,” then smile as he quickly devours the first sandwich with just a few wolfish bites. Watching him eat is bringing back memories.
I can’t stop staring at his mouth, and at his throat as he swallows, at the blissful expression on his face. “Good?” I ask weakly, feeling envious of the biscuit crumbs that cling to his lips.
Tony nods. He flicks a glance my way then licks his lips clean. “Thanks for bringing ’em over,” he mumbles as he tears into the second biscuit.
Jesus. That mouth. “Where’d we go wrong?” I wonder. Unfortunately, I wonder it aloud. “Sorry,” I add when Tony’s face puckers like he’d tasted something sour. “I meant me, not we, right?”
“No.” Tony sighs and shakes his head. “No. You were right the first time. I made mistakes, too. I just don’t see the point in discussing it, you know? Where’s the sense in doing a postmortem at this point? It’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”
“No,” I say, which probably sounds like I agree with him. “It’s not gonna do that.” But I don’t agree with him. Not really. I mean…why not talk about it? Just because it’s too late to change things doesn’t mean they didn’t matter. A little closure would be good, better than what I have now, which is mostly memories and regrets—and a hollow, sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that’s warning me that those memories and those regrets are going to follow me into eternity, that they’ll stay with me, and eat at me, and torture me, forever.
Tony finishes his meal in record time—even for him. Then he tosses his trash into a wastebasket and gets to his feet. “All right, c’mon,” he tells me. “Enough lazing around. Let’s go do some work.”
“Ookay.” What work? I wonder as I follow him back into the hall, and into a storage closet. We pause there only long enough for Tony to shrug into a Carhartt and grab some supplies—gloves, goggles, shears, a pole saw.
“Don’t you maybe want to tell someone where we’re going?” I ask as we exit the building through a back door, hoping he’ll take the hint.
He doesn’t. He shakes his head and says, “That’s one of the nice things about being my own boss. I don’t have to answer to anyone.”
And if The Powers That Be are looking down at me right now, as I pray they are, I hope they see the way I bite my lip to keep the snark from slipping out. I hope they appreciate the enormous restraint I’m exhibiting in not replying; when did you ever?
Tony motions toward a UTV side by side with attached trailer and says, “That’s us, by the way.”
“Just like old times,” I quip remembering all the countless hours we’d spent here, in the past, riding around in similar vehicles. “So, how about you tell me what’s going on? Where the heck are we going?”
Tony flashes me a smile as he swings himself into the driver’s seat. It’s not a very good smile. In fact, if I could think of even one reason why that should be the case, I’d say he looks nervous. “You mentioned the other night that you always liked helping out on the farm,” he reminds me. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, it’s time to put your money where your mouth is.”
“What money?” I scoff as I round the vehicle. There’s a wreath attached to the UTV’s front grill. As I walk past it, I tap the bells that decorate it, making them jingle softly as I remind him, “Angel, remember?”
“Well, whatever currency you use,” Tony mumbles as his smile slips away and his eyes grow bleak. “I mean, there’s bound to be something, right?”
“Sure. Bound to be,” I reply, negating all the credit I might have earned a moment earlier by uttering a big, fat lie. I gotta stop teasing him—it isn’t healthy or kind. And he’s right not to smile, not to laugh or to be amused. Because it’s not funny. Not at all.
As Tony navigates us over the utility road, I watch the passing scenery—or pretend to. It’s such a familiar feeling, riding around like this with Tony, except that, in the past, I’d reach out now and then and touch him. Just casually. Just a hand on his leg or something.
We’d be sitting relaxed, chatting casually, allowing our arms to brush against each other’s, not how we are now—stiff, silent, and withdrawn, both of us making an effort to keep within our own little bubble.
I wish I had the courage try it now, to reach out and brush his cheek, to ask about that smile, to try and cheer him up. But I guess it’s not really courage that’s the problem, is it? It’s the fact that I no longer have the right to do any of that.
On that long ago Christmas Eve—the night after we’d raced Tim to the lamppost—we’d lain together, Tony and I, in the room that he usually shared with Tim. Our bodies were plastered so tightly together as we struggled to fit our bulk onto one of the narrow, twin beds with which the room had been furnished. Still too uncertain about our changing circumstances to risk pushing the beds together.
It was the first time I’d ever felt that close to another person, or so comfortable with touching and being touched, so much at peace.
I remember telling him, at one point, “You know, I’m not your brother, right?”
Tony’s eyebrows rose.“Geez, I would hope not, all things considered.” He glanced down the length of our bodies, lips twitching in amusement. “Dare I ask where this conversation is going?”
I snorted in amusement. “Idiot. What I mean is that I disagree with him. You can put your mouth on my cookies any time.”
“Ah,” he replied, eyes gleaming, as his gaze met mine. “I’ll be sure to remember that.”
If I could go back in time to just one moment back, relive any single memory, I think that might be the one; the two of us poised on the cusp of a new relationship, with all the possibilities before us.
It matters. Figuring out what went wrong, and when, and why. Determining which were the false steps that took us from there to here. It matters a lot.
“Here we are,” Tony says, startling me out of my reverie, as he pulls into a field of trees.
I take a quick look around and feel myself frowning. It seems anti-climactic. But really, what was I expecting? It’s a tree farm. That’s what they’ve got here. Lots and lots of trees.
Once we come to a stop, Tony sets the brake and hops out of the vehicle. I do the same. The sky above is overcast, the temperature is dropping pretty quickly—nothing strange about that. That’s just how the weather works here.
All the same, I huddle deeper into my jacket, shivering slightly. Reminding myself that there’s no cause for alarm. Even a forty degree change in temperature, between morning to night, is not unusual for this time of year.
I still don’t know what we’re doing here, however. So I glance at Tony, only to find that he’s watching me expectantly. “What?” I ask cautiously, aware that I’m missing something.
He nods towards the trees. “I guess the place looks a little different than you remember it, huh?”
Yeah, because I don’t remember it, I think. Still, I look around again, trying to humor him, trying to pick out something, anything that might spark a memory. And then… “Wait….these trees. These aren’t… I mean, this isn’t…is it?”
There’s nothing coherent in the clumsy words that fall from my lips, but Tony nods as though they made perfect sense. And the sad, reluctant smile he gives me leaves me with no doubt. He knows what I was trying to ask him. And the answer is yes.
“Wow.” I lose my breath a little bit as I contemplate the trees again, trying to see them as they once were, those very first seedlings the two of us planted together. “They got big, huh?”
“Yeah. They did.”
“Aw,” I say in a desperate attempt to downplay my emotions. “Our first babies. All grown up.”
“That tends to be how it works,” Tony replies dryly. He’s always been much better than I at hiding his emotions. Still, he brought me here, didn’t he? I mean, he brought me here—and made sure I knew it. That’s got to mean something.
I glance around again. “So, which one…? I mean, do you know…?”
“No.” Tony sighs. “I have no idea.” And, for just a moment, he looks like maybe he regrets that, too.
“So, what’re we doing with ’em today?”
Tony shrugs and looks away. “Oh, you know. Just a little last-minute shape up to make them look nice.”
Last-minute? Oh, shit. I draw in another quick breath and ask, “You mean, before they’re cut down.”
“Yeah.”
“Wow.” It’s a tree farm, I remind myself. A. Tree. Farm. That’s what they do here. That’s why we planted them in the first place. “That’s some Circle of Life shit right there, innit?”
“Yep.”
Reaching into the vehicle, I grab gloves and shears. “Okay. Show me what you need me to do.”
And maybe it’s not the reconciliation I was hoping for, but as a way of bonding and finding closure with one another, it doesn’t suck.
After a quick lesson in what needs doing, we work in silence, side by side, going down one row and up the next. And if I silently apologize to each tree as I trim it, well that’s between me and…well, just me and myself, I guess.
As we work, I can’t help but remember part of the conversation we had that day…
“This is how I want my life to be,” I remember telling Tony. “I want to spend every day like this.”
I remember his startled response, “You mean planting trees?”
“No,” I’d said. “That’s not the point.”
And maybe I was wrong before. Maybe this is the moment I’d go back to, if I could only have one. Or if I could go back in time at all. Because maybe this was the real inception point, the moment that could have changed everything. That maybe did change everything. Because right now, I’m wishing with everything that’s in me that I would have said “yes,” back then, instead of “no.”
It wouldn’t have been a bad life. In fact, I think it could have been a very good life. And I’d fucked it all up with one thoughtless word.
When we’re done, I take a moment as Tony’s tossing all the cut branches into the trailer, for one last look around. I reach through branches to lay my palm against a trunk, raise my voice and say, “I think it was this one.”
Tony glances at me. “Yeah?” he says in dubious tones.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Well. Could be,” he says and quickly turns away. But not before I see the tears gleaming in his eyes. At least, I think they’re tears. The tears in my own eyes are making it a little hard to be certain.
On the way back, I ask him what he’s planning on doing with the branches we cut.
“I’m just gonna drop them off at the barn,” Tony explains. “Maybe they can use some of them for decoration. We’re a little low on garlands and swag, at the moment.”
I smirk a little at that. Yeah, you are. They’re low because of how much Maggie and I grabbed for the house. But then a single word snags my attention. “They?”
“I’ve got staff to deal with that sort of thing,” he says, and I can’t help laughing.
“Ooh, listen to you now. How bougie.”
“Oh, shut up,” Tony replies, shooting me a sudden grin. He raises a hand in the air and waves it at me. “You know these are too clumsy to do shit like that.”
“Nope,” I respond, feeling a little breathless as strobe-light memories start flashing again. “I don’t think so. That’s not how I remember it. Not at all.”
What I remember is Tony’s hands sliding across my skin, tugging at my hair, gripping my shoulders, my hip, my thighs. Tony’s fingers tightening around my cock, slipping inside my ass, intertwining with mine as we exchanged our vows. Those hands, those fingers, that firm, steadfast clasp. Teasing. Tender. Torturing me to ecstasy might after night after night. Promising a lifetime…
“Well, maybe you’re remembering it wrong,” Tony observes dryly. And maybe I am.
“So tell me. This barn,” I say instead. “Am I right in thinking it’s the same one where you hold the weddings?”
Tony’s eyebrows rise. He looks sideways at me in surprise. “Yeah. But that’s in summer. I mean, for the most part. Right now…well, you know, it can be cold this time of year. Sometimes people just like to have a place to sit that’s out of the wind. Someplace warm where they can eat their lunch or enjoy a hot drink. Sometimes, on the weekends, we’ll have crafts set up for the kids to make—that sort of thing. How’d you hear about the weddings, anyway?”
“Tim mentioned them.”
“Ah.”
“He told me about all the other stuff you’ve got going on here now, too. Geez, that’s some list. Sound like you’re crushing it.”
Tony nods. “It keeps us busy, that’s for sure.” He slants another look my way and adds, “You were right about the one-crop-a-year thing, though. It wasn’t working.”
“Was it hard, getting your folks to agree?”
“A little. In the beginning, especially. But once things started taking off…”
“Nothing succeeds like success?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
As we pull up to the barn, it’s my turn to look surprised. “This isn’t new, is it?”
“Nope. Same barn that’s always been here.”
Not exactly how I’d’ve phrased it. In fact, it looks so different—inside and out—that I barely recognize where I am. The wide plank floors have been sanded and stained. The unfinished, bare wood walls have been finished, covered in sheetrock and paint.
There are tables set up, mostly around the room’s perimeter, leaving an empty area in the center, which I can only assume is meant to function as a dance floor. Through a doorway in the back corner, in a space that I vaguely recall had once housed a workshop, I spy a shiny, new industrial-style kitchen suitable for a restaurant.
I can’t stop staring, can’t help noticing. The old and the new meld together in my brain. What was, what is, what might have been, and what will never be all jostle for dominance. Memories and regrets, rise out of nowhere, pulling me under once again.
Oddly, it’s not a memory from here that surfaces, instead I find myself transported back to New York, to an office Christmas party Tony and I had attended, several years ago. Back to what would be yet another of the defining moments of my life, if I’d only known it.
We’d been married just over a year, at that point. So, while, technically, we were no longer newlyweds, it still felt like we were in the honeymoon phase. But somewhere in the back of my mind, even then, I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Which, on the night in question, would have been an Allen Edmonds, plain-toe, black patent leather Oxford.
I was on the brink of having everything I’d ever wanted that night. My career was on fire. I’d just received a promotion and a huge Christmas bonus. For Tony, however, things weren’t going quite so well.
He’d been struggling. We never talked about it, but I knew he wasn’t happy. And I did try my best to motivate him to do better, mostly by modeling what I believed was successful behavior; by working hard and refusing to get sidetracked by his increasingly constant demands that I take time to do other things—to go for walks or waste hours in a museum. And, although he never seemed to take the hint and follow my lead, all those extra hours I ended up putting in hadn’t hurt my career at all.
The party that night was being held in the Rainbow Room high above Rockefeller Plaza, with its walls of windows, its iconic view of the Empire State Building, with the crystal magnificence of its immense chandeliers glittering overhead. And its famous revolving dance floor beneath our feet—always—because that’s what I recall most about that evening.
It’s never the tuna tartare, the veal arancini, the foie gras macarons or the lobster pot pie that I think about. My Tom Ford suit or the new Rado watch I’d been so proud of rarely cross my mind anymore—still less the Veuve Clicquot or the Bruichladdich Black Art I drank that night.
In my mind, and in my heart, we’re always dancing…
“You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself,” Tony observes as we swirl around the room. We’re such a good team when we dance, so in sync with each other’s steps, that it never seems to matter which of us leads.
“Sure, I’m pleased. Look at us. Look at where we are. We’re on top of the world right now, Tony—metaphorically and literally.”
“Well, one of us is,” he points out, and I can’t really argue with that. This is my company’s party we’re attending tonight, not his. And as far as my bosses are concerned, I’m the GOAT.
“True. However, I am dancing with the best-looking man in the room.” And one of the best dressed, I add silently; thanks to me. I’d splurged on a new suit for him, as well, thinking that, perhaps, if he got used to dressing for the corner office, he’d work a little harder to get himself there. “So, basically, everyone here either wants to be me, or to have you.”
Tony’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes. “Well, by that logic, since you already do have me, I guess what you’re really saying is that everyone here just wants to be you.”
“Okay,” I say, after thinking about it for half a sec. “That’s fair; I can live with that.”
“Except you can’t. Since isn’t true.”
“Excuse you?” I ask in mock outrage.
“There’s at least one person here tonight who couldn’t care less about me. But he sure wouldn’t mind having you—just in case it’s escaped your notice.”
“What? Bullshit. Who’re we even talking about?”
“Jim,” Tony replies succinctly, naming one of my colleagues.
“Ah.” I nod reluctantly. This is not how I intended this conversation to go. But, “You might have a point.”
Don’t get me wrong, Jim’s a great guy—charming, insincere, ambitious, a total prick, and not at all bad looking. He kinda reminds me of me. And if I had time for a work husband, or any interest in having one, he’d probably be my first pick. And I really hope Tony didn’t notice any of his shameless attempts to maneuver me beneath the mistletoe earlier this evening. As if I’d fall for something that obvious—sorry, son. This boy wasn’t born yesterday.
“But you know it’s not personal, right?” I say. “I’m not interested in him, and he’s just looking to bask in the glow of my reflected glory. I think he views it as a win-win. Which, let’s be honest, it would be—for him.”
“For both of you.”
“Are you…jealous?” I’m smiling in disbelief as I raise my hand, and his along with it, and push him into a little turn. It’s archaic and a little embarrassing to admit, but I’m kind of turned on by the thought.
Tony’s lips are pursed like he’s tasted something sour. “No, Jake. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good. Because you know there’s no reason for it, right?”
“Isn’t there? Can you honestly tell me that if you and I met today, instead of when we were just eighteen, that you’d still want to marry me now—when you could marry someone like Jim, instead? Someone who can do more to advance your career than I ever will? Someone who could fill the shoes you keep trying to force my feet into; to be the other half of that power couple that you and I used to think was our fate?”
“That could still be our fate,” I correct gently. I hate that he’s so down on himself. “No, that will be.”
“Jake…”
“I’m not worried, Tony. I know it’ll happen.”
“I don’t think so.”
Thinking of the newer, better laptop, currently wrapped and waiting under our tree, the one that I’m hoping might motivate him into doing a little more work outside of the office, I double down. “Of course, it will! You just need to get your head in the game and—”
“Talk less, listen more. It won’t!”
Well, not with that attitude, I think, feeling salty; feeling like I want to return the laptop, and keep the money. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, I don’t…I don’t think I want that anymore.”
But I can’t accept that. This is our dream that he’s just…just giving up on—it’s not his alone. How come I don’t get a say in this? “I don’t know why we’re having this discussion, right now. Who the hell knows what would happen if we met today? The point is, we didn’t—so the whole thing’s moot.”
“But if we did,” Tony replies mulishly. “Are you really going to stand here and tell me you wouldn’t choose differently?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Could be you’re right. You’ve obviously given the idea a lot more thought than I have. Do I think there are advantages to being married to someone with more ambition? Sure. Do I think that would be more practical? I do. Do I think I could have Jim if I wanted him? No doubt.”
Tony pulls away and glares at me. “I could go home. If that’s what you’d like. I’ll get a cab downstairs and you can stay here; you and Jim could plan out your future together.”
“So dramatic,” I sigh as I pull him back into my arms. I would bet my entire 401K that, if I were married to Jim, I wouldn’t have nearly as much drama to put up with. Too bad that’s not what I want.
“Do you know what your problem is, Tony? It’s that you slept through most of philosophy class sophomore year.”
“That’s my problem? A lack of Descartes?”
“In a manner of speaking. And don’t try and tell me it didn’t happen. Because I know for a fact that it did, because you were constantly asking to look at my notes.”
“Fine. You win. But I don’t know what that has to do with anything now.”
“Simple. As a result, you never learned to think or argue logically.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. Now, listen up. We both agreed that I could have Jim if I wanted him, yes? And yet, I don’t have him. Ergo, I must not want him. And I don’t. I want you. For reasons which are entirely eluding me, at the moment.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Other than the fact that I love you. Always have. You know this.”
“Love you, too,” he mumbles, looking only partially mollified. But am I worried about that? Hell, no. Because I know him, and I know how to close deals, and I’m not near to being done yet.
I pull him closer, wrapping my arms around his waist. Then I lean in and start singing—softly, just for him—crooning along to the song that’s playing. And thanking my lucky stars that it’s something romantic and schmaltzy—and set in a reasonable range.
Do I think I sing well? Heck, no. I’m not delusional. But I also know that it doesn’t matter. He’s always been a sucker for a serenade.
Within a very few minutes, he’s pulling back, cheeks flushed, pupils blown. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks in that husky voice that promises All the Good Things.
“Fuck, yes,” I an answer before reality kicks in. “Oh, shit. I can’t.”
“What?”
“This is work, right? I need to network and schmooze. Kiss up to my bosses and flatter their wives. It’s still early. We can’t leave yet.”
And I watch as his face falls and he grudgingly agrees. And I silently promise us both that I’ll make it up to him—later. Except I never do…
If I could go back to that moment now, I’d grab him by the hand and leave that party on the spot. Without so much as a backward glance. I’d spend that night—and all the ones that follow—proving to him that our marriage was my top priority, and that I’d always put him first.
Except that, back then, it wasn’t, and I wouldn’t have. So maybe nothing could have changed what happened. Maybe we’d always have ended up right where we are.
And maybe it’s just as well.
I’m lost in my thoughts, when Tony returns. “All right. Let’s go,” he says, waving me toward the door. I follow along blindly. But then, just as we’re leaving, something catches my attention. Over the door through which we’re about to pass hangs a beribboned sprig of mistletoe.
And no. I didn’t put it there.
My breath catches in my chest, and I grab Tony’s arm, without even meaning to.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, looking startled once again. “What is it?”
I don’t trust myself to answer. I just point, instead.
Tony’s stricken gaze meets mine. “Jake,” he whispers, swallowing hard. “No. Come on. I-I can’t.”
“I know.”
“I mean…we shouldn’t.”
“No.” We really shouldn’t. But I really want to, all the same.
What if this is the last time, a little voice whispers urgently inside my head. What if it’s the last time ever? I’m suddenly terrified that that will be the case; that I’ll be stranded in that damn fogbank, all alone, throughout eternity. With no one to touch, to hold, to kiss, to love. With no one at all…
Only if you’re lucky, the voice reminds me. If you can even make it back there. You probably won’t, you know. And those thoughts, of course, are even worse.
“Tone…” I plead, feeling faint with fear. I can’t pretend that my voice emerges as anything other than a whimper.
I’m pathetic. I’m a mess. I am so fucking screwed, and I no longer know what to do about any of it. Because I’m not going to make him happy enough. My mission will fail. And I’ll be alone forever.
And then, in the next breath, everything changes.
Tony crashes into me, pinning me against the doorframe. We clutch at each other like two drowning men, drowning in a kiss that feels like eternity, groaning at the rightness, the wrongness, the everythingness of whatever this is.
And for just an instant—one single, timeless, perfectly imperfect instant—I have no regrets. None, whatsoever.