Max sat up in the folding chair uncomfortably, inside the basement of the Westcoast First Assembly of God church listening to fellow mates in the program speak about the difficulties they were facing with holiday time and their alcoholism. Many were collecting their milestone chips for three and seven years, one woman who had been in the program successfully for twenty solid years. As the group shares reached Max’s turn, he became speechless. He didn’t know what to say for himself. It was like he was one of the only people who was back to the beginning. Though he was ashamed to consider himself a newcomer, who for all intents-and-purposes, he was in this particular group of folks, he’d been so busy settling into his new homestead—this would be only the second time speaking to the Washingtonians in recovery. However, Maxwell stood up and bit his cheek. He knew he had to be honest, and with that, he spoke the truth.
“Hi everyone,” he began. “I’m Max, and I’m an alcoholic.”
The group greeted him in unison.
He held out his hands. “You see, I know what most all you are feeling. And as I look around, I am so proud of you guys for the tremendous achievements you’ve made. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for myself,” he paused, took in a couple breaths of air. As he started back, he noticed a guy enter the back door quietly and find a seat in the back row. It took every ounce of him to not make a public spectacle, because the man was Trevan Donoghue. The Trevan Donoghue who he’d went to bed with several months prior. Who was straight, but acting gay. Or maybe was gay, but hadn’t been out of the closet. The same guy who he promised if he saw in the same room ever in the future, he’d knock him into the next Sunday. All Max’s feelings toward the guy rushed back to him as he continued explaining his woes of losing control and throwing away exactly three thousand-six hundred-forty-seven days of sobriety. Out of all the meetings held daily in the Seattle area, it just had to be this very one he shows up to. But he let the hostile thoughts wash away.
“So now, to sum up, I have so much to be grateful for. And after this, I’m gonna try getting back the man whom destiny brought my way,” Max finished, stepping down from the podium.
Roberta, the woman who’d been abstinent for twenty years, stood up to bring the group to a close. “Does any other last speakers want to share, before we wrap up?”
Trevan stood up from the back row, raising his hand first. “Hi, I’m Trevan. I’m an alcoholic…”
“Sorry I was late, I just wanted to do a check-in before I got my holiday festivities started.”
As the group concluded in the serenity prayer, which honestly Max didn’t really like from the first time he was considered a newcomer. So Max used this opportunity to make his exit through the back door into the hallway. Meanwhile, Trevan trailed behind him and caught the door before it slammed back shut.
Maxwell turned around to spot Trevan shivering in what appeared to be real fear.
“Look, Trevan,” Max said, pointing his index finger straight at the guy, not realizing that he looked fearful because of the last words he swore to him as he left that hotel room at the Seattle Hyatt on Pike Place.
“Oh, sorry,” Max apologized, putting his hand in his pocket. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise,” he assured. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for what happened the last time we saw each other. Or when we met, whatever the hell that was,” Max rolled his eyes, realizing he was rambling by this point. “What I’m saying is, my life has changed so much since then and I have an amazing guy who I need to go make things right with,” he replied with assurance.
Trevan loosened his stance. “Oh, so you’re not gonna knock me out?”
Max clicked his tongue. “God no,” he replied. “I wish you all the best in your life, and you find the happiness you deserve, if it is your sexuality you’re dealing with. Having kids and a wife before realizing who you really are as a man,” he paused, taking in a breath while placing his flattened palm on the guys shoulder. “That’s gotta be tough. But,” Max paused again. “You deserve whatever you wish. And I hope you find it.”
“Something like that, yeah,” Trevan replied, shrugging.
Max lowered his hand and held it out to shake the man’s hand. “Truce?”
Trevan smiled amiably, affixing to Maxwell’s grip. “Absolutely.”
***
After the long saunter to his car, Maxwell felt the butterfly sensations start fluttering around his stomach, as if he felt confident that his plan was going to work out. But perhaps there was a certain level of doubt and things might not pan out how he hoped. Maybe Durango was so mad at him, that he would refuse to talk to him. Or the worst feelings which only in the moment entered his head. Is he even okay? What if he was in so much pain, Durango had been sent to a hospital somewhere because of actual heart-break—with Brogan’s heart he was trying to get back in the first place?
Traffic at Christmas-time in a big city like Seattle left more to be desired. As soon as a traffic jam would seem to break up, within a matter of a couple minutes, it returned to the dreaded bumper-to-bumper for what would seem to last for miles. Maxwell decided he’d just head straight over to Durango’s house. He wanted to make everything up. He hoped against hope itself that he’d hear him out and be willing accept his apology, but most of all—listen to his plans for changing things around with his own self. How he needed to stop being so angry about everything and learn to be twenty degrees cooler under pressure. But as it seemed, this was a commonality among alcoholics. Even those in recovery.
Surely since Durango was a very keen guy in the world of psychology, he would not only accept his initiative, but be proud of the great progress he was going to be making for himself. Or he thought, progress has already been made with understanding the steps he needs to take in order to be the cool as a cucumber dad to not just one, but hopefully two truly amazing kids on the spectrum. These were all things he kept trying to remind himself on the evening commute of Christmas Eve.
Maxwell rounded the corner of Durango’s subdivision. As his Porsche Cayenne pulled up to the curb in front of Durango’s house, he noticed Durango’s vehicle parked in the driveway. He spared no time, leaping from the driver’s seat. Max leapt up the driveway and onto the front porch. He questioned inserting his copy of the housekey or ringing the doorbell. If there was the sliver of doubt that he wouldn’t easily forgive Max, he seemed the former would be along the same lines of breaking and entering—even with a key. On the other hand, it certainly seemed to be the prudent thing to do and ring the doorbell. Once he arrived at the very thought, his right index finger pressed the button an extra few times. Just for good measure in case nobody heard it the first time. Of course, this also was just a sign of his nerves too. Those damn butterflies, and the doubt, had not left his body since leaving the AA meeting.
Without even a jacket, Max remained on the front step for what seemed like a good five minutes. He was worried that indeed his latter emotions were real, and Durango didn’t want to speak with him. As he stepped down the driveway on the trail back to his car, an uneasy feeling and modicum of sorrow washed him over. Climbing back behind the steering wheel, he wiped a tear from his left eye before switching the ignition to drive back home. Max felt the intensity of loneliness begin to surmount and he wasn’t entirely sure if he’d be able to shake this off. And the fact he had to be strong in front of his mother, Mel, and Lily, just rocked him to the core with sadness.
The commute from Durango’s neck of the woods seemed shorter than the trip towards it from his earlier meeting. But this was only for the fact, Max didn’t have to utilize the major expressway. And also, the L.V. Murrow bridge was a straight shot across Puget Sound. He turned on his radio to see if some music would put him in a bit more chipper mood. He shuffled the stations until he came across a channel not currently on a commercial. Though by this point though, Max was a mere three minutes away from reaching home. Where he wondered if he had to immediately cake a smile on his face for the fact his mom would be waiting to hug him and never let go, and Lily would attack him with her excitement that Santa was getting closer.
Maxwell lowered his window, punched in the gate code where his opposing hand bumped the channel switch in the upper part of his steering wheel. The radio station immediately switched back to the beginning of the tuner, in the middle of an all too familiar song—the most inappropriate of any which could play in that current moment, drowned his eardrums as the murky waters in his sea of sorrow rose to the top of his emotions.
“Cuz we’re living in a world of fools. Breaking us down. When they all should let us be. We belong to you and me. I believe in you…”
The exact moment his heart began thrashing against his ribs, Max glanced up the winding driveway to spot Durango—standing on the front step donning a burgundy oxford shirt, brandishing a bouget of Tiger Lilies at his chest, looking off into the setting sun over Seattle.
Maxwell engaged his parking brake, not even intent on lifting the garage door. He leapt from the car with a smile, stepping around the backside where Durango met him halfway on the corner of the walkway.
Durango reached his arms around Max and let out a sigh. Small salty rivers poured from Maxwell’s eyes as he stood there under the sunset, feeling the same back rubbing half patting maneuver which Brogan would use all the time. He hadn’t felt that in several months, but it was a sensation he never did ever forget.
“I’m so sorry, Durango.”
Durango pushed Max slightly forward to look him in the eyes. “Shhh, I know you are. I already forgive you.”
Max shook his head. “Not without hearing what I have to say.”
“I already know what you’re going to say, babe. And I support you the entire way.”
“Wait, what?” Max asked, with a pure look of confusion. “How do you know? What do you mean?”
Durango held the Tiger Lilies between both their chests as Max looked down into the bouquet of Brogan’s favorite flower. Maxwell’s memory flashed back to the first moment when he met Brogan in the food court at the Denver mall where he bumped into him, spilling Pepsi into his burgundy oxford shirt. From his and Brogan’s wedding song playing minutes ago, to the flowers, to the colors Durango was currently wearing—it all seemed to be straight from a dream. Max swore it had to, because that would’ve been too many coincidences in a row. Especially when he didn’t truly believe in coincidences. To him, things just happened as they did. There wasn’t typically any questioning why.
Maxwell met Durango’s gaze as the man looked him straight in the face. “Because I took a nap earlier, and Brogan,” he paused. “Your Brogan came to me in my dream and told me what to do. He told me you were sorry, and exactly how you planned to make everything right,” he added, tears now streaming from his eyes. “And I already forgive you, but…” Durango paused again, wiping away the emotional display while bending down to one knee. “…but you have to promise to spend the rest of your life with me.”
So many emotions whizzed through Maxwell, but none of them were any of the negative sensations he felt previously. The clothing, the flowers, the song. It all made perfect sense to him now. This was the validation he was in search of. Brogan really must have visited Durango in a dream. There wasn’t any more denying it. And it took no time at all for Maxwell to reply.
“Yes, I do,” he shoved his forearm across his tear-filled eyes. “I mean, I want nothing else but that, Durango Walters.”