Alien Tango

Maybe it already was.
    Sped around the remainder of Pueblo Caliente’s late night drivers and mercifully hit an empty stretch of highway. I was still in shock from seeing Chuckie here and now, let alone from his proposal. In love with me since ninth grade. I’d had no clue. My mother’s comments about my density rang through my mind. The week we’d spent in Vegas had been great. Really, the best vacation I’d ever had, and not just because of the killer sex. At least, until Martini took me to Cabo.
    Fortunately, I was on that empty stretch, was a good enough driver, and knew the road well so I could drive with tears running down my face. I wanted to ask the cosmos why Chuckie hadn’t come to get me seven months earlier. Of course, he couldn’t have told me the truth then about what he was really doing to pass the time between making more money appear like magic and traveling the world. And, just as he knew when I was lying, dense or not, I’d have known he was hiding something. Something that, seven months ago, he couldn’t have told me about. And that way lay badness.
    And, maybe he hadn’t come these past few months because he’d known I was with Martini. So, did that mean he knew we’d broken up? Or was it more that he’d chosen this time to give it one last shot? He’d called my mother, and she loved him, so I had to vote for her having told him I was involved and helping him go for the last ditch effort. After all, he’d checked to see if I had a ring on, and reality said that if I was engaged, he’d be one of the first to know—and if he’d thought proposing at the reunion was romantic, perhaps he’d thought Martini would feel the same. But all that took at least some planning, so maybe it had just timed out right. If I could call the current situation “right” in any way, shape, or form.
    Maybe he was supposed to show up right now, right when it was over with Martini, to say, “Here I am, the right guy for you.” I considered the idea. Hard to do, but I forced myself to think about it—it was so much better than crying or thinking about what was going to happen if Reid caught me before I could get to a gate. And I wasn’t alone on the highway here, so thinking while getting around the various diesel trucks on this patch of road was going to be much wiser than sobbing.
    I went for logical—assessment of pros and cons. It wasn’t too hard to run through my limited options here. Aside from Martini, of all the men I knew, the two I felt I’d be happiest with long-term were the two men who were my best friends—Reader and Chuckie. Reader being gay and apparently not going bi any time soon let him out of the realistic running, no matter how often we joked otherwise.
    Chuckie wasn’t gay, and he also wasn’t an alien. There were no complications. No one would fight anything if we got married. Our families would be thrilled, religion wouldn’t be an issue, and neither would the internal makeup of our children. No worries about empaths or imageers or anything else. The only worry would be if we weren’t smart enough to keep up with our offspring. Somehow, Chuckie’s parents had managed, so I figured we would, too.
    Honesty compelled me to look at my dating prior to Martini. I’d dated a lot. But the longest relationship had been Brian. Particularly after the Vegas trip with Chuckie. After that, no one had seemed right, and I hadn’t stuck around.
    Which begged the obvious question—had I been waiting for Chuckie, without even realizing it? I had to admit I was dense enough that it was possible. I certainly judged other men against him and always had.
    So, did this mean this had all happened so I’d realize Chuckie was the right guy? Or was it all just down to lucky timing? And, if so, would all this fall under divine plan or coincidence? Chuckie didn’t believe in coincidence, and, according to ACE, the divine plan was to let us handle it ourselves.
    As I hit another stretch of open road, my mind shared that, waiting for Chuckie or not, judging others against him or not, the man I’d actually fallen deeply in love with was Martini. Who was God knew where, doing God knew what, though I had a suspicion that hating me was involved along the way there somewhere.
    Someone at the radio station certainly hated me—the hard rock channel spun Mayer’s “Dreaming With a Broken Heart.” It had been bad enough hearing it before. It was worse when I was all alone, driving toward