(Author's Note: I apologize profusely for taking so long to post the latest chapter of this story. Real life has been quite bothersome lately and the energy to write ebbed to a standstill on certain days. However, I can see light at the end of the tunnel and hope to resume posting on a regular schedule. Thank you for continuing to read and I hope you comment as well.)

I had barely disconnected the video call from Alastair when caller ID displayed Rafe’s name on the screen. This was getting to be an everyday thing, after 25 years of interacting perhaps 3 or 4 times total. I accepted the voice call.

“Good morning, Rafe. What mischief are you up to today?”

“It’s a must, Joey. A must! See you tomorrow.” He disconnected.

I had already planned on shopping on Monday afternoon but for Christmas gifts for Rafe’s family, not for a formal dress. It struck me the penultimate time I had been in one of the two Hyatt Regency ballrooms; we were advised to dress casually. The night of our high school graduation. The last night I would see Rafe until November of that year when he paid me a surprise visit at Columbia.

Our senior year at Port Jefferson High was a mixed bag. The incident that occurred after The Clash concert at Bonds International in Times Square changed our relationship. In some ways we became once again the best friends we had been ever since pre-school days. We ate lunch together almost every day, walked to and from school together, listened to records in my bedroom, watched him play basketball and football on the school varsity, and so on. But he still dated girls like Kelly Richards and his parents were icy cold to me whenever I came over to see him.

There was one confrontation of seismic proportions in early November. Rafe was taking an elective photography class and his term project was to create a photo gallery of Port Jefferson’s most interesting sights that could be used in a tourism brochure. His choice of model was…me.

It was a silly, reckless, stupid, dangerous…and, for me, impossible to reject proposition. Rafe assured me that no one would recognize me in make-up, styled hair, and fashionable clothes. Erica volunteered to be my stylist, unbeknownst to our mother. I don’t know where Rafe obtained the various outfits he had me wear but they were all high street items. Even down to the bras and panties. So, on an unseasonably warm Saturday, we wandered around town, changing outfits in the back of his father’s Chevrolet van. I felt simultaneously scared witless and magnificently liberated. I tried not to stumble too much in my sister’s low-heeled shoes and boots while being conscious of gently swaying my hips.

The funny thing about the whole day was, even when we came across kids from school or, in one case, our Chemistry teacher and his wife, no one recognized me. Rafe had to explain to everyone that I was a family friend from New York City who wanted to get into modeling. I said nothing and just gave them a mysterious Mona Lisa smile when they nodded at me.

Saturday had been the perfect day to do the shoot, not only because it wasn’t a school day but Rafe’s parents had planned to spend most of the day in the city visiting friends and running errands. We thought we could get away scott-free before they returned sometime in the evening. So, it was quite a shock when the van tooled up the driveway of Rafe’s house to find mom and dad’s car already parked there. My sister Erica was panicked. Rafe swallowed hard and advised us to sprint up the stairs to his room as soon as we stepped in the house. I knew this was a doomed strategy as soon as Rafe, allegedly an honor student, had proposed it. But, dressed as I was, I wasn’t in a position to argue.

We got as far as the middle of the living room when our thundering footsteps alerted Rafe’s mother, who came quickly out of the kitchen, her hand held up as a stop sign.

“Rafe and Erica, go into the kitchen! There’s some orange juice in the fridge. I want to speak to Joey alone. Now, please…” They gave me forlorn looks but did as they were told.

“Joey, sit down. We’re going to have a little talk, you and I.”

I sat down on the sofa, remembering to keep my legs together underneath my skirt. For good measure, I crossed my ankles and smiled innocently at Mrs. Metheny.

“Rafe told me he was shooting photos for his term project but I had no idea he would be using you as a model. My dear boy, will you do everything my silly son asks you to?”

“He was very persuasive, Mrs. Metheny, and you know I’d do anything to help Rafe. He was having a lot of trouble finding a girl to be the model—”

“That’s what he told you? I bumped into Kelly Richards’ mother at the Shoprite just last Tuesday and she was gushing about how beautiful her daughter was going to look in Rafe’s tourism brochure.” She placed her hand on my shoulder, felt the bra strap underneath my top, flinched, and replaced her hand to stroke it. “Do you want to be a girl, Joey?”

Fidgeting under her touch, I tried to sound convincing. “No, Mrs. Metheny. Not at all. It’s just that Rafe really needed a model and he was under a lot of time pressure and my sister said she could do my makeup and style my hair and she’d given Rafe my sizes and stuff and…”

“I’ll talk to Rafe, Joey. He has to stop this fascination with you, trying to turn you into a girl. It’s not normal. He has to stop taking advantage of you. I know he’s not doing it maliciously. We all love you. Rafe’s dad thinks so highly of you and how you’ve managed to keep your grades up despite the problems at home. Generally, you’re a wonderful influence on Rafe. I wish he was as serious about his schoolwork and his future as you seem to be—”

“Do you think Rafe is just pulling a prank on me, Mrs. Metheny? Because that’s not true. He knows I…I enjoy dressing up. And I’m not gay or anything. Honest.”

“Okay, I believe you, Joey. But this “dressing up” has to stop. For your sake and Rafe’s sake as well. It’s not something two young men should be doing. I won’t say a word about this to your mother or Rafe’s father. But I will have a talk with Rafe. Now…” She handed me a tissue. “Dry your eyes. Your mascara’s going to run. Go upstairs to the bathroom, use my cold cream to remove your makeup and change back into your normal clothes.”

I dabbed at my eyes, trying not to sniffle, and walked toward the stairs. Erica, who’d been eavesdropping behind the kitchen door, climbed up the stairs with me.

Rafe rang the buzzer on the door at five minutes of 5PM. I’d been ready for half an hour and opened the door to find Rafe holding out a box containing a wrist corsage of pink sweetheart roses, a broad smile on his still handsome face.

“For you, Joey. Pink roses to match your rosy cheeks.”

“Oh, Rafe. I told you not to give me a corsage. It’s not the senior prom—”

“Trying to make up for missed chances, Joey. I should have asked you to the prom instead of Kelly Richards.”

“Oh that would’ve been just ducky. Our mothers would have had us institutionalized. And everyone at school would’ve tarred and feathered us, dropped us right into The Long Island Sound. This was 1981 in Port Jefferson not Greenwich Village—”

“They’d never have suspected. You’re my prom date from New York City. You would have been the belle of the ball in taffeta.”

“Thanks for the thought, Rafe, but I’m not going to wear that to the gala. I’m 58 years old!”

“I’ve heard that 58 is the new 18—”

I put my overcoat on and picked up my purse. Pushing Rafe out of the doorway, I turned to lock the apartment door.

“I assume your car is downstairs.”

“Yes, milady, your carriage awaits. Are you sure you won’t wear this?”

When we reached his rental Beamer, I noted that the interior was empty of passengers.

“I guess everyone else is in Martin’s car?”

“Oh, yeah, you’ll see when we get to the hotel.”

“You didn’t comment on what I’m wearing, Rafe. Is it okay? I went a little conservative. Not festive enough for a Christmas gala?”

“You look fine. Port Jefferson’s not a social mecca like New York or Los Angeles. As long as the price tag’s not showing.” I swatted him on the shoulder as he chivalrously opened the passenger side door for me.

Less than two hours later, we had just checked our coats outside the Hyatt Regency Ballroom. The cocktail hour was already underway but Rafe took me aside before I stepped inside. He led me back to the hotel lobby and told me to pose in front of the Christmas Tree, brightly festooned with tinsel and lights. After snapping a burst of pics with his phone, I returned the favor and ordered him to do the same. He looked very handsome in his tailored blue suit, a classic look for an evening event like this.

When we entered the ballroom, we could hear Christmas standards being played with a soft jazz lilt by a quartet sequestered in a corner of the stage. Rafe and I looked to be late arrivals as all the tables were occupied, cocktail glasses tinkling amid hushed conversations. When Rafe pointed out our table, I realized I’d been set up…again.

“I don’t think the rest of our party is late, Rafe. What’s going on?”

“They decided to go see Some Like It Hot instead. Martin’s friend was able to get seven tickets for tonight. You know the show’s sold out through March of next year—”

“No, really, Rafe. Tell me the truth.”

“It was Sally’s idea. She wanted us to have some time together. And I agreed wholeheartedly. Don’t be upset, Joey. The gala’s nice and there’s dancing after the main program. Indulge me. It might be last time we spend together for a long while.”

“We’ve barely seen each other in 20 years and now you’re worried about not seeing me for a long while? We’re not courting, Rafe. I’m getting married soon. How would you have managed tonight if Alastair had returned from LA yesterday? Just stared daggers at him for four hours?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course, I realize you’re getting married. I feel the need for some closure between us. We used to mean a lot to each other.”

“That’s a geological age ago. We had our closure when you left to take over your father’s firm and moved to D.C.”

“That, remember, was your choice, Joey. Don’t say it was mine—” The waiter came to our table and asked for our cocktail orders. “The lady will have a glass of Chablis, slightly chilled. I’ll have a vodka martini.”

“I could’ve ordered for myself.”

“I know what you drink, Joey. Was I right?”

“Yes, but…oooh, you’re so infuriating sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

Throughout the evening, people kept stealing glances our way. Well, it was an odd sight. Two seats filled at a table for eight. They must have thought we were some kind of billionaire couple slumming at a charity gala in the sticks. I had to fight the urge to slump down in my chair. Rafe, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He applauded at all the right moments in the opening remarks made by the Chairperson of the Port Jefferson Community Chest. I sipped my second glass of Chablis and tried to keep my yawns to a polite minimum.

The centerpiece of the program was a performance of a scene from the local Theater Three’s annual production of A Christmas Carol. I can never doubt that the universe has a way of speaking to you, perhaps announcing its inscrutable plans for you. Here I was, sitting in the ballroom of the hotel that hosted my high school graduation party, next to my first love, and they’re performing the scene from A Christmas Carol that most likely changed the direction of my life and, for all intents and purposes, tore that love from my very hands.

When Rafe recognized the scene as the one where Scrooge is confronted by The Ghost of Christmas Present, he looked directly at me, smiled, and mouthed “you.” For Rafe, it was an incident of minor import but for me, it was the event that forced on me the realization that Rafe and I could never be more than good friends, at least as long as I was Joseph rather than Joanne.

Dinner was served immediately after the Dickens scene (the audience gave the players a thunderous ovation) and Rafe and I chose the chicken rather than the fish dish. It was decent. Rafe joked we could go for pizza afterwards if we were still hungry. I seriously thought about going for pizza at that very moment. But Rafe said the auctions were the best part of the gala.

For a backwater town, Port Jefferson actually put up some impressive items for auction. A 14-day Mediterranean cruise with 6 ports of call was the top shelf item. The winning bid for that came to almost $22,000. I didn’t recognize the older couple that won. Not surprising. I haven’t lived in Port Jeff for 40 years. There was an autographed game-used football from some NFL quarterback who went to Port Jefferson High. That went for an amazing $2,000. There was pizza for a year from Bob’s Pizzeria on East Main Street. I nudged Rafe when that went up for auction but he didn’t bite, literally. There was a pair of paintings from our local celebrity painter, a new age primitivist, that ended up going for $5,000. A set of handmade wicker chairs and table that reminded me of the wicker chairs I had purchased at an estate sale the year before for my erstwhile house in Southampton. Other smaller items included a year’s membership in a popular health club in Stony Brook and four season’s tickets to New York Islanders hockey games.

A successful auction was had by all and the floor was cleared for dancing. Of course, Rafe took my hand and led me onto the dancefloor. The people who thought we were some celebrity couple made room for us, which just made me more self-conscious about how bad a ballroom dancer I was. Although Elizabeth and I did show out with the tango moves when she took me to that Argentinean restaurant in Los Angeles last summer. Truth to tell, she was the one actually dancing. I was being dragged around the dancefloor. In a sultry manner, nevertheless.

Rafe held me close as we slow-danced to the cocktail jazz that the band was playing. We said barely a word to each other, just moved to the music, our breathing the only sound that intermingled with the song the girl singer interpreted.

I thought about the night of our high school graduation party. The angry words exchanged between Kelly and Rafe as I stood by myself, an outsider, alone without a date, dressed even more casually than the most casually dressed members of the sports teams. I was startled when Rafe ran over to me and grabbed my arm. We exited the hotel and jumped into the car Rafe’s dad had bought him as a graduation gift. A steel blue Camaro Sport Coupe. As they say in all those B movies, we burned rubber, headed nowhere and everywhere at once.

Rafe stopped at a 7-Eleven on Nesconset Highway and bought a six-pack of Miller Lite. As we drove aimlessly around, Rafe unloaded all of his discontent to the night air. His parents had moved to Georgetown in Washington, D.C. because his father’s architectural firm had received a multi-million-dollar contract to design and build a dozen new hotels along the Eastern Seaboard for the world-famous Harriot Hotels company and their headquarters were in our nation’s capital. He was obligated to spend the summer in D.C. before attending M.I.T. in Boston, starting in September. He intended to declare engineering as his major. And he knew that I was headed to Los Angeles for the summer again to stay with my father and his girlfriend. In the Fall, I would matriculate at Columbia in the city. He almost screamed out that we might only see each other once or twice a year for the next four years at the very least. Given his emotional state and the six-pack of beer which he threatened to chug in record time while driving, I managed to out-chug him so he could stay relatively sober behind the wheel. When he reached for a can, I’d beat him to it. He really didn’t notice since he was in mid-rant. I was getting less lucid as the hours went by. I basically fall asleep when I’ve drunk a lot.

Sometime after midnight he must have stopped driving because I don’t really remember any more of that aimless rant-filled trip around the North Shore after we turned off the highway and apparently back-tracked toward town.

I heard a voice nearby muttering something I couldn’t quite make out. It took an effort but I opened my eyes. The sun was bright in the sky. It seemed clear I was lying on my back on wet grass. I turned my head slightly to the right and saw Rafe hovering above me. Finally, I could understand what he was whispering.

“So beautiful. Why are you so beautiful? It makes no sense. I love you, Joey…”

“Rafe? Rafe, where are we? Are we dead? Did you crash the car and kill us last night?”

“No, we’re alive. Good morning, Joey. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

“It’s good we’re not dead. Remind me never to ride in any car you’re driving again—”

“We’re on Mrs. Caruthers front lawn. Jesus, how did we get here? It’s 6:30 in the morning. Sally’s gonna kill us. She must think we’re dead.”

“How can she kill us if we’re already dead? Where’s your car?” I got to my feet and looked around. It was a suburban neighborhood on a typical late Spring morning. I couldn’t see Rafe’s car anywhere.

“That’s a good question. We couldn’t have walked very far from it…before we collapsed on the lawn.”

“Hey, you young hoodlums! Get off my lawn! I’m calling the police!”

Mrs. Caruthers, a widow in her late ‘70s, was wearing a ratty old bathrobe and brandishing a broom like a martial arts staff. I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it. We ran like the wind off her lawn in different directions until I turned and saw Rafe disappearing from view. I changed course and caught up to him. I was always a faster runner than him.

Sally didn’t kill Rafe when we showed up at his house half an hour later but my mother read me the riot act. She would have been even more long-winded but I had to catch a plane to Los Angeles later that day. It would be a whole two months before she’d be able to finish her harangue.

Somewhere in the dizzying emotional cocktail of memories of graduation night mixed with the seasonal musical warmth of a Christmas standard, there appeared a space where I allowed Rafe to kiss me deeply and tenderly, carrying the force of missed opportunity and regret. I think I actually swooned for a brief moment, so much so that Rafe had to hold me up as the song ended.

“It’s late, Rafe. And a long drive home. Thank you for the evening. I had a nice time.”

“I had the best time, Joey. The kiss was worth waiting 30 years for.”

We stood still in the middle of the dancefloor, even as the band started another Christmas song, a jaunty rendition of “Jingle Bells” done Andrews Sisters style. I brushed Rafe’s cheek.

“You know this is all I can give you, Rafe. A kiss goodbye, dear heart. Our lives have taken divergent paths. My future is with Alastair. You have a grandchild coming and a daughter who still needs a caring father—”

“Shhh. Don’t spoil the moment we just had. Come on, let’s head back home.”