The rest of my time in Chicago was uneventful compared to the time I spent with James. He sent me a text message to let me know that he arrived at his college safely. We began exchanging messages through video chat software on the computer. For my last two weeks in America, we settled into a pattern of talking when James first woke up in the morning. Both Sophie and Jerry were at work, and I had their condominium to myself. I loved looking at his tousled hair and sleepy eyes. He was effortlessly sexy. I wanted to crawl back in bed with him and sleep another two hours before waking up, kissing, and doing whatever else came to mind.

The day before my flight back across the Atlantic Ocean, I went shopping with Sophie to choose small gifts for friends and my parents back home. Sophie said, “It’s been so wonderful to have my little brother around. Are you sure you don’t want to move to Chicago?”

I said, “I’ve got so many places to explore in the world, but I’ll be back. I love visiting you. I think I get along a lot better with Jerry now, too. I needed to get to know him.”

Sophie giggled. “He said last night that he’s going to miss the skinny guy.”

* * *

When I planted myself in my seat on the plane back to Amsterdam, I thought it would be a quiet flight. I didn’t want to sleep, but I figured a few movies would be enough entertainment, and I could stumble to my apartment at home and finally sleep for hours and hours. My plans disintegrated about thirty minutes later.

An older man, perhaps age fifty or sixty, sat next to me, and he pulled out a newspaper. I was fascinated watching him fold it up into a small enough package that he could easily read it on an airplane full of so many passengers. He ignored me at first.

No words other than our first terse, “Hello,” passed between us until I ordered a drink from the flight attendant.

My seatmate turned to me and said, “You’re Dutch.”

I smiled politely and nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”

He said, “I didn’t pick it up from the way you speak English. It’s something about the sounds that form around the words. It’s hard to explain to someone who isn’t a linguist. Anyway, I did business in Amsterdam for many years. I’ve known a lot of people from your country.”

I said, “Most people don’t notice, or they assume that I might be Swedish when they see my hair.”

He nodded and asked, “What enticed you to cross the Atlantic? Was it vacation time? I’m assuming that you live in Europe.”

“I do. I was visiting my sister. She married an American and lives in Chicago. It was my first visit since she left home.”

I knew that an extended conversation was on the way when the man reached a hand toward me and said, “I’m Harold. It’s good to meet you. I usually stick to myself on flights, but this is a long one.”

“I’m Lucas. Do you live in America, Harold?”

He said, “Yes, I’m an American from Grand Rapids, Michigan. I’m on my way to Rome. I have an old friend that retired to Italy from the U.K. My wife passed away just three years ago, and I spend a lot of time traveling now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for that. I hope this is a good trip for you.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about me. We had thirty amazing years together. Is there a special woman in your life?”

I blinked before I answered. I hesitated, and I wondered what I should say for my answer. I knew that many Americans were still very biased toward gay people, and a long flight lay ahead. I didn’t know if I should give him ammunition to use to be antagonistic toward me.

Noticing the hesitation, Harold asked, “Is that a question I shouldn’t have asked?”

There was something about the open sound of his voice that gave me the courage to speak up. I said, “No, and I don’t date women. I’m a gay man.”

I was confused when Harold burst out laughing, but then he said, “I always stick my foot in my mouth in conversations like this. I shouldn’t have assumed. It would’ve been just as easy to ask if there was a special person. Let me back up a step. I’m still curious about your answer to the question. Is there a special man in your life?”

Usually, I thought questions about my dating relationships were invasive. Harold was different. He wanted to enjoy a pleasant conversation. I said, “I’m not sure.”

As Harold’s brows knitted together, I began to explain. I told him about racing James on skates and the dinners we shared. I explained that I was a former speed skater, and James played hockey.

Harold interrupted me. “You said he plays hockey? These planes always turn out to be signs of such a small world. I used to play hockey. I coached, too. I was a high school history teacher until I retired early after Carol passed.”

I said, “He plays hockey in college.”

“Oh, which college?”

When I answered the question, Harold’s eyes opened wider. I could see the interest in his gaze. He said, “That’s one of the top programs in the country. He has to be very good to even make the team. If he’s starting, he has at least an outside chance of making it to the NHL.”

I asked, “NHL?”

“National Hockey League,” said Harold. “It’s our professional hockey league. It’s the aspiration of hockey players in both the U.S. and Canada. Several European players come over, too.”

“He does skate well. I’ll ask him more about hockey. I have to admit that I only know the most rudimentary concepts of the game.”

Harold said, “I’m surprised you don’t know much. Some NHL players retire, and then they go to play in the Netherlands.”

I grinned. “Exactly. You just said it. Hockey players come to my country when they’re no longer good enough to play in the world’s top leagues. On the other hand, we have many of the best speed skaters in the entire world.”

I thought about James. He was humble about his athletic skills. I had no idea that he could be among the top college hockey players in his country. He was faster skating than I expected for a hockey player. As I spoke with Harold, I thought about James racing on a speed skating track. His body was truly built for speed compared with my longer and lankier figure.

Harold continued the conversation. He asked, “What do you do for a living if I might ask. I’m assuming you are out of college since you said that you’re a former speed skater.”

“I do graphic arts, and I spend time on the more artistic side of painting when I can.”

“Do you sell your paintings?” asked Harold.

I nodded and said, “When I can. I’ve not done a lot yet, but I want to expand in that direction.”

“What kind of subjects? Abstract? Figurative?”

I grinned. “You know about art, too?”

Harold smiled back at me. “I have a personal collection of hockey art. Much of it is photography, but I have some paintings, too.”

I said, “I paint portraits mostly. I’ve done a few with people posed, and then others I do using a photo of the person and creating my own abstract background.”

“Do you have any images of your work? On your phone maybe?”

I reached up and rubbed my chin. Then I remembered that I took photos of a couple of my paintings to show Sophie. I frowned when Jerry butted in to look at the images and said, “I don’t know why you don’t just go with a photo. They cost nothing to make now with digital cameras, and the quality is good. A painting takes hours to create and might cost you a thousand bucks or more.”

Sophie glared at him and said, “Because you can capture things in paintings that you can’t with a camera. It’s why people still write poetry instead of only reading news articles.”

Jerry sighed, and, after a few minutes of reflection, he said, “I guess you do have a point. Lucas, I apologize.”

Remembering the moment distracted me from the conversation with Harold. That ability to rethink his snap opinion and apologize when necessary was one of the things I liked best about Jerry. Stereotypically, guys like Jerry would just stomp off and growl about an assault on their authority. He had enough self-confidence to carefully consider all viewpoints.

“Did you find anything?” asked Harold.

I turned my attention back to my phone. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking about my sister and her husband. They are the reason I took the photos in the first place.” I added, “These aren’t the best images, but you can probably get an idea.”

I held up the phone and Harold lowered his glasses while leaning forward. He said, “Those are excellent. I love the backgrounds in particular. They make the subjects jump off the page. Are you going to paint your new boyfriend?”

I laughed nervously. “If James is my new boyfriend. I don’t know where things are going. It’s possible I may never see him in person again.”

Harold reached up and scratched his head before turning his head to face me. He said, “It sounds like you really like him. What’s standing in your way?”

“Six thousand kilometers of land and ocean.”

Harold nodded. “That is a lot. Is there any possibility of being together if something developed through remote contact?”

I was shocked at an older man like Harold sounding open to talking me through the relationship possibilities. When I thought about my parents, I assumed that they would think I was crazy to seriously entertain any options with James. I considered dating a guy from Germany that I met on the street in Amsterdam, and they thought that was pointless despite the fact he lived just across the border.

“I’m hoping to make my graphic arts work profitable enough that I can live almost anywhere. I want to travel and see the world.”

“Do you know what James wants to do?” asked Harold.

I stared back at him. “He’s studying architecture in college, but I think his gut wants him to pursue hockey. I wish him the best in both pursuits. He’s smart; so he would make a great architect. He’s competitive, too, and that would be good for hockey.”

Harold continued his line of questions and asked, “Are you planning to keep in touch.”

“Yes, we’ve already used video chat since he left Chicago and went back home. We will keep doing it when I’m home.”

“Then you have a good question to ask him,” said Harold. “See if he has a preference for sports or the arts.”

Since he seemed so open in the conversation, I decided to ask, Harold “Have you ever been in a long-distance relationship?”

He smiled broadly. “Yes, with my wife, for the first three years after we met.”

I started to ask about whether or not it worked, but it was evident that it turned out fine. Harold mentioned that they had thirty years together. Instead, I asked, “How did you make it work?”

“A lot of communication and trust. She wanted to be an actress. She moved to Los Angeles to try and make that work while I was in graduate school in New York City. She thought she had a better chance with TV and film than considering the Broadway stage.”

I asked, “Was she somebody famous?”

He shook his head. “She wasn’t famous, but she had a successful career. When she didn’t have a big break acting, she started writing articles and then books. My wife has written some of the best work on movies and TV of the 1960s out there. She was a writer, and I was a teacher. We got to travel together most summers. It all worked well, and I miss her terribly.”