My Last Date

Ryan bounded down the stairs into the den. He wore little more than a broad grin and white cloth held together by a purple cord tied around his waist.
“What do you think?” He walked the length of our cozy den, turned, and struck a manly pose. “Roman enough?”
How did he manage to make his chest and arms look meaty in a makeshift toga? I swear his abs even poked through. Some people really had won the genetic lottery.
“You’re a regular Caesar salad.”
He grabbed a pillow off a chair and hurled it at me.
“Hey! No abusing the palace staff.”
He laughed. “This is gonna be a blast. I’ve never done a murder mystery party before.”
“Me either.” I held up a thick binder. “I’ve been studying the case all afternoon. There are so many details I have to tell one character, but not another, and at seemingly random times I have to pass secret notes to players as they discover clues or hints. Most of those notes are cued off whatever crazy things the players say throughout the game. This narrator gig is real work.”
He leaned down and gave me a peck on the cheek as he headed into the kitchen.
“You’ll do great. You love telling stories,” he called out between test bites of marinara. “Damn, this is really good, babe.”
I’d started the made-from-scratch lasagna hours earlier, determined to let the sauce simmer for as long as possible before assembling the layers of Italian goodness. In addition to the traditional sauce, meat, cheeses, and pasta, I added mushrooms and spinach. This was one of Ryan’s favorites and I wanted it to be perfect, both for him and the gaggle of gays about to assemble for our mystery mayhem.
***
The past year and a half had passed so quickly.
During that time, we’d fully nested in our townhouse and established ourselves as a couple in the neighborhood. The lesbians across the street had latched onto us immediately, but others had approached with a bit more caution. There was a keen difference between living inside the gay bubble that was Midtown and living near it. We were clearly outside the cozy gay sanctuary, but close enough to feel its glow on our faces when we walked outside.
The relationship between Ryan and his ex, Diane, had evolved from confusion and bitterness into friendship and partnership. That had required time and countless hours of venting, crying, and a million questions anyone in her position would ask. I was so proud of how patient he’d been with her, but was even more impressed with her compassion and willingness to be open to the man who’d hurt her so deeply. It took such strength for her to accept this new person she was getting to know. At least, I guessed that’s how it felt for her. We never spoke.
There were a few times Ryan came home exasperated by some of her questions. It reminded me of facing the inquisition by my parents every time I went home. I wanted to scream, “We’ve been over this a thousand times,” but compassion drove me to follow a different path with those conversations. Ryan loved Diane, and she loved him. Their realities were intertwined, and only through love and understanding would their family survive and grow stronger.
Again, compassion reigned.
It’s funny how often that word came to mind—and how critical it was for all of us.
Ryan and Diane remained a unified team in raising their kids, and while I didn’t think she would ever truly understand Ryan’s journey, she finally came to some healthy conclusions. She called one Saturday afternoon while we were cleaning the living room. I knew something was up, because Ryan’s voice bounced from friendly to curious to concerned. He dropped his dusting rag and sat on the couch, staring into nothing, as she spoke. I continued cleaning the kitchen, trying not to hover—or, at least, to not look like I was hovering. Midway through the call, his tears began. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I tossed my own rag and sat beside him, my arm around his quaking shoulder. I could just make out her voice in the receiver. She sounded strong, resolute, yet warm.
She started by announcing she now knew their divorce wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t done anything wrong and had given herself permission to stop blaming herself. It was the Mount Everest of emotional victories, and I was thrilled to hear her conquer that climb. To lose one’s family and their white-picket-fence future was hard enough. Add a thick layer of guilt to the equation and anyone would suffocate under its weight. No one deserved that, especially not the mother of Ryan’s children, a wonderful, caring woman who’d unfortunately married a man eighteen years before he fully knew himself.
She went on to tell Ryan to give himself a break, that their breakup wasn’t his fault either. He was living his truth, and as painful as that might’ve been for all of them, she respected his courage to face it.
Alan and Elaine were growing up quickly. Ryan spent every other weekend with them at their house. Diane might’ve accepted Ryan, but she’d likely never accept me. As he put it, I represented everything that tore her marriage apart. Deep down, she didn’t really believe I’d turned Ryan gay—like some rainbow-colored vampire with fairy dust dripping from my fangs—but for her, it was painful to think of me, the guy who now made Ryan smile. That had been her job for nearly two decades. As much as I wanted a relationship with the kids, I couldn’t blame her for being protective of them—and of herself. She’d been through enough.
Ryan and I had become that couple. You know, the one others ogle over how they look at each other? That ogling came with admiration, a hint of jealousy, or the desire to visit the nearest dentist from the saccharine dripping from our mutual gaze.
Yeah, we were hopelessly in love.
Actually, that’s inaccurate. We were hopefully in love.
Ryan wouldn’t sleep without some part of us touching. Most nights we drifted off with my arm wrapped around him, our bodies pressed tightly together. His hands clutched mine until sleep overcame him. Even when the room was too hot to spoon, he pressed his toes against my leg. Somehow, we were always connected.
I’d never felt so safe, so loved.
And I’d never loved so freely and deeply.
In every prior relationship, I’d held a part of myself back, maintained that last wall to protect my heart in case things ended. The only exception prior to Ryan had been Carter, my first, and that was only because I had absolutely no clue what I was doing. After that gut-wrenching breakup, I vowed never to give up that last line of defense against heart-crushing pain.
Ryan made it past that wall.
He scaled it—or smashed through it, I’m not sure which.
I couldn’t keep him out, and I didn’t want to. A little over a year into our relationship, I felt that defense crumble. We were on another of his work trips in San Francisco. He’d just locked me up in an Alcatraz cell, one of our favorite tourist destinations in Rice-a-Roni town. We laughed as we walked out of the prison. Other tourists glared and smiled at our silliness. The sun was setting on the bay. The breeze carried a tickling tang. As we reached the dock to board the ferry, he ignored the assembled masses and tenderly brushed the hair from my forehead. His gaze was intense, like peering into a bottomless well and finding no end to its depth. My breath caught when I looked into his eyes.
In that moment, I knew he was forever. He was my forever.
And the last wall fell.
***
It felt like only days or weeks ago that Ryan and I had met for the first time in Caribou, then made a day of putt-putt. But it had been years. Two of them, to be precise. Time moved so fast.
This gathering was our way of including our closest friends in the anniversary celebration. We’d seen so many gay couples break up in recent months that we wanted to give encouragement to those giving a serious relationship a whirl. We wanted to show them that two men really could make it work.
Ryan took another bite before tossing his spoon in the dishwasher.
“Dinner’s in good hands. I’m going upstairs to finish getting ready. Need me to do anything?”
“Mind setting the table? There are place cards with each character’s name and a seating chart on the table. I need each player seated in specific order. Everyone’s supposed to arrive in character, and stay in character until the game is over.”
His brows rose. “Wow. You really have been working.”
“Yep. Now, Caesar, out of my kitchen before I beat you with dried pasta.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time, Brutus. A pasta beating sounds fun, especially if it’s your big noodle doing the spanking.” He swatted my butt and scurried out of the room, his toga fluttering dramatically behind.
I tried not to smile, but Ryan knew how to push my buttons.
God, I loved it when he pushed my…
Never mind.