O Come, Let Us Adore Him

Chapter 1 According to the girl who read my tarot cards at the Renaissance Faire last summer, there is no “good,” there is no “bad.” There is only Energy flowing through the Universe, ours to manifest as we see fit. Was it a “good” idea to chase after Colin McWilliams on his family’s annual Cancun Christmas trip just because he sent me a drunken Snapchat of his d**k wearing a little sombrero tagged Wanna c*m? Maybe, maybe not. But it seemed a downright ridiculous idea to stay put in Winnipeg and await the forecasted multiple feet of yuletide snow once such an enticing invitation was issued. Sun and s*x by the sea in Mexico or celibate snow shoveling in Manitoba? Let me carefully weigh the pros and cons. On my way to the airport. Besides, I reasoned once airborne, by sending such a graphic declaration of his craving—along with the address of his family’s vacation villa in a small town south of Cancun—after a mere three days apart, Colin was clearly sending me another message: I’d won. After what I was now able to acknowledge as too many months of “getting to know” us both, he’d finally chosen me over Joaquin Prochazka. At last I could call Colin my boyfriend, without stumbling over all the qualifiers and conditions that had pock-marked our relationship up to now. Which called for a celebration, I declared to the robust WestJet flight attendant, handing him my credit card and spiking my Clamato with a second tiny vodka. From my position in the winner’s circle, high above Kansas or wherever we were, I could admit: it hadn’t exactly been a layup. Joaquin was younger than me, taller than me, and more along the lines of a smoldering exotic beauty. I had broader shoulders and a much bigger butt, but even at thirty-nine, I also had a certain amount of boyish, bumpkin charm that I’d been pouring on like maple syrup over a shortstack. I won’t say I was surprised Colin chose me—Picasso-faced pouting man-child that he was, he could’ve done a lot worse—but Joaquin was what you might call a worthy adversary. After weeks of sweater weather and holiday parties, I was just glad I could stop sucking it in and looking over my shoulder. Customs was a breeze. I’d basically tossed some swim trunks, a pair of sandals, and a grip of condoms into a backpack then jumped into a taxi—the only thing I had to “declare” was my need for Colin, and when I told the border guard my reason for visiting Mexico, the tilt of her knowing eyebrow told me no such declaration was necessary. She winked when she handed me back my passport, and I bolted for the taxi stand. There’d been snow on the ground and ice in the air in Winnipeg, but in the back seat of the rickety green Datsun chugging away from the airfield, there was decidedly no need for boots or a shawl-necked sweater. Sparing an apologetic grin to the woman in the passenger seat I took for the driver’s mother, I wriggled out of my winter wardrobe and pulled my carefully planned arrival ensemble from my bag. I figured if Colin had chosen me in the Battle of the Boyfriends, the least I could do was roll up looking like a prize. The jade-colored shorts I’d selected hugged the hills of my hindquarters and hit my thighs just north of the scenic overlook of my quads; the black T-shirt had enough stretch for the sprawl of my shoulders, but fit snug across my stomach. I was nobody’s cheese grater, but I was sure as hell flat-bellied enough for a flirting-with-forty desk-job Canadian in December that I was going to show it off. It was far and away my most flattering fair-weather outfit. Had I gotten it on, I knew it would have pleased Colin to see me in it. As it was, when we rear-ended another airport taxi and I was flung to the floor, I was barely out of my boots in nothing but my briefs. Which would have been fine—I took the driver’s seat right in the face on impact, and wasn’t trying to get blood all over my handsomest Tee—had not the passenger in the jalopy we jolted jumped from it and run back to us, calling, “Are you okay?” in English and in Spanish. And had he not stuck his head in the open window of the back seat and gasped in surprise. “Richard?” And had I not been forced from my position, folded on the floor with my feet in my face, ass akimbo, to wipe the blood from my nose with the back of a hand, give a little wave, and cough out my most casual, “Oh, hey, Joaquin.” What the hell are you doing here? I thought but did not say as he flung open the door and all but dragged me to my feet in the street. “Are you okay?” “I think so,” I said. It was just a bloody nose, maybe a stiffish neck. I was fine. You know, except for the part where I was standing in a Mexican street in nothing but my drawers with the person I’d spent most of my day fervently hoping never to lay eyes on again. I strained to recall that Joaquin’s mother came from Mexico. Perhaps she was Cancunian? With a large, festive family nearby, and this was all a horrifying coincidence? Joaquin would laugh, maybe pat me on the shoulder, and magnanimously acknowledge, “The best man won.” Then get back into his taxi and putter off to the family homestead to celebrate Christmas and try to get his pretty little head around Life After Colin. I could put on some clothes and collect myself, clean my face, and get started on my new life with Colin. Which couldn’t be all that far away, I realized, taking a good look around. We were on a residential street, lined with palm trees and high stucco walls, glimpses of the Caribbean twinkling through the gate behind us. I didn’t remember the name of the little town Colin had invited me to, and I didn’t know the name of the village we’d collided with, but I certainly hoped we were close—this particular spot appeared posh-as-you-please, and seemed a delightful locale to lounge by the pool and cocktail away one’s Christmas. Which was what you might call the silver lining around the cloud that crashed down when the gate behind Joaquin’s shoulder opened wide and Colin stepped into the street in a crop top and some very short shorts and whooped, “Oh good, you’re both here!” He looked into the street with a frown. “Why didn’t you share a cab?” He lifted onto his tiptoes to kiss Joaquin, then bent to kiss me. Then he turned to glide back through the gate. Neither inquiring after blood-gushing facial injuries nor helping with luggage was really Colin’s style, but the over-the-shoulder parting shot was right up his alley. “I’m surprised they let you on the airplane like that, Dickie,” he said to me. “You didn’t need a coat?”