Chapter 2

I settled down at my desk, set my briefcase on the floor, and took a sip of wine. Then I finally examined the FedEx envelope. Curiously, it wasn’t addressed to either Randy or me but merely contained the street address. I opened it cautiously, upended it, and a single eight-by-ten photograph slid out onto my desk. The glossy black-and-white print was a rather grainy enlargement showing two men standing in a stream, apparently facing each other. They were obviously enjoying the act of splashing water in each other’s direction and were totally naked. They were also partially tumescent.

I sat for a long while, mesmerized by the photo, and I was so overwhelmed by the memories it invoked that I couldn’t focus on anything else. Instead, I found myself carried back to that summer, which was forever etched in my brain under the heading ‘The summer before it happened’.

Blue Ridge Mountains, VAJune 2005Ian

RANDY AND I HAD been best friends ever since chance had made us freshman roommates at The Citadel. We’d met our future wives during our junior year and had had a double wedding immediately after we graduated. I went on to spend several years in graduate school, obtaining first a master’s and then a pair of doctorates, one in Russian history and the other in Eastern European history, while Randy began a career with the military.

That particular summer, we’d taken our wives on our annual camping trip in the Blue Ridge Mountains—for once, our sons had been left with their respective grandparents for a couple of weeks instead of accompanying us on the trip as they usually did. It was a fun time, and the four of us took advantage of the fact that our campsite was extremely isolated. I don’t remember who was the first to suggest we go skinny-dipping, but we eventually did so several times.

That camping trip was remembered as ‘The summer before ithappened’, because by Christmas of that year my wife was dead—killed by a drunk driver—and Randy’s wife had left him for another man. I spent what was left of that school year suppressing my own grief and dealing with a thirteen-year-old son who’d just lost the mother he loved. Randy had much the same problem, given that his wife had not only left their thirteen-year-old son behind but had made it quite clear that there was no room for a child in her new life.

Arlington, VA12 November 2010Ian

I SNAPPED BACK to the present when I was hit with an unexpected rush of sadness at the memory of the months that had followed. That was easily one of the worst periods of my life, and I’d survived by dedicating myself to two things—my son and my work. I went to classes and taught, and I spent the rest of my time either with my son or pursuing the research for my next book. However, during the following summer, things took an unexpected turn.

Blue Ridge Mountains, VAJune 2006Ian

AS SOON AS SCHOOL was out that year, we took the boys camping, which was something they loved to do. We pitched a pair of two-man tents in the same remote area where we’d all been so happy in the past. Randy and I even managed to goad the boys into skinny-dipping with us. They were nervous and uncertain at first but eventually got into the spirit of things and splashed around in the little natural pool with us nearly every day.

On the last night of the trip we were all a little sad, knowing that we had to leave the next morning and return to the real world. The boys retired to their tent a little early, and so did we. The weather had turned unseasonably warm, so we were lying naked on top of our sleeping bags in order to alleviate the effect the heat was having on us—we’d briefly discussed moving the sleeping bags outside the tent, but the ever-present mosquitoes had made doing that impossible. I drifted off to sleep very quickly but woke up some time later to find Randy clutching me, his face buried in my chest. He was sobbing quietly, and at first, I didn’t know what to do or say.

Finally, I put my arms around him and said, “What’s the matter? Still missing Mary Jane?”

“Are you kidding?”

“What, then?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Of course you can,” I said. “After all these years, there isn’t anything you can’t tell me, you ought to know that.”

“I’m afraid you’ll hate me.”

“I doubt it.”

“Okay, I’ll tell you,” he said, “but first, hold me for a minute or two.”

We shifted positions until we were lying belly to belly, arms wrapped around each other. He began to move a bit in my arms; then he sighed and said, “Oh, God, I knew it would feel like this.”

“Knew what would?”

“Holding you like this. Being held. It feels good, doesn’t it?” he said.