The next day, as you’re driving away, you think that the best part of Roswell, quite possibly the only good part at all, is the two-foot tall alien cup that Chris bought you, full of Dr. Pepper. It’s in the back now, next to a crumpled piece of paper that used to be your itinerary.

You’ve given Chris the last pair of sunglasses from your stock, the coloring book is completed but for the one picture of rabid fans that Chris asked you to save for him. You’ve listened to most of the cds you thought to bring and Chris laughed at you earlier when you tried to stick Savage Garden in. So you shrugged and put the Black Crows in instead.

You’re bored and you’re tired and you should be in Tucson by five and you don’t think you’re ready to tell him but you promised yourself that you would.

You’re lost in self-pitying thoughts when Chris pulls over to the shoulder of the small, two-lane highway. You look over and he’s laughing, doubled up over the steering wheel and pointing with a shaky hand at something out your window. You turn and look. There’s a tree, one tree in the midst of all the shrub brush, standing taller than anything else around it for miles. Green if not lush, compared to the surrounding plants.

In front of it, small and white and unobtrusive, is a sign that reads “Orogrande National Forest.”

Once Chris stops laughing and after you’ve taken a picture and after he pulls back on the road and continues driving, you’re still stuck on the tree. Alone and out of place, with a huge sign proclaiming it so.

You sigh, feeling stupid for comparing yourself, however briefly, to a tree so you close your eyes and soon fall asleep.

“JC.”

“Chris.”

“JC.”

“Chris.”

You’re playing that game again and you’ve long since stopped paying attention when he yells, “what is that!?” in your ear and points off to the horizon.

You look in the distance, blinking at the harsh light of the midday sun. He still has your sunglasses.

“Sand,” you say. “Lots and lots of sand.”

“But it’s white.”

“It’s a… what’s that word? Mirage? Yeah. It’s a mirage. It can’t really be white.”

But he drives closer and you discover that it really can be white after all. There’s a scientific explanation for it that the Welcome Center to the White Sands Missile Range explains to any who care to listen, but neither you nor Chris have the patience or desire to know. So you purchase the day pass while he waits in the car.

“There’s a map that tells you where to go,” you say, holding out a brochure.

Chris sneers at the pamphlet. “I pity the fool that needs a map,” he says, starting up the car.

You go as far as the road lets you, away from all the other cars. You don’t want to be recognized or bothered.

He stops the car next to a huge, white dune. You jump out and run around, leaving the flip-flops you’d been wearing in the car. You’ve been sitting in the car all morning and it feels so good to move around. You run to the top of one of the dunes and throw yourself down the other side. Chris follows and soon you’re rolling over each other, half fighting, half just trying to get as much sand down each other’s shirts as possible.

You roll off him at the bottom of that dune and run up the next, trying to reach the top before Chris.

You are laughing and screaming and your eyes are mostly closed against the glare of the sun and the sand and you can barely run because you can barely breathe.

You reach the top before he does, gasping for breath between hysterical fits of laughter. You have a few moments to bask in the glory of your accomplishment before he runs into you, knocking you over and down the other side of the hill.

You’re rolling over and over and over and laughing and inhaling sand and the smell of Chris but you don’t care because you’re out and it’s him and you’re free.

You stop at the bottom and he’s over you and he blocks out the sun. His face is a dark shadow and you don’t know what expression is on his face but you think if you don’t kiss him now, right now, you’ll burst.

So you tangle your sandy fingers in his hair and pull his face down to yours, catching his sandy lips with yours and when your tongue brushes his, there’s sand in his teeth, in your teeth.

He pulls away, pulls his body from contact with yours, bracing himself above you on straight arms. You arch up to try and meet him, licking your sandy lips with a sandy tongue and whimpering. He groans and you open your eyes. You still can’t see his face but you can see his eyes and they’re almost glowing in his face, staring down at you.

He shifts to one arm and reaches up his other, brushing a sandy fingertip against your cheek. You sigh as your mouth falls open and his finger moves across your skin to your lips. “So pretty…” he whispers and you don’t think you can hold it any longer. Can’t keep from telling him. It’s rising up inside you and you can’t control it or stop it and you have to say…

“I love you,” he says. You’re silent, staring up at him because he’s said what you’ve been trying to say for days now. Says it so easily. “I don’t mean, like, love you like I love Justin. I mean I love you. I really love you,” he continues; because you don’t say anything, just stare up at him.

“JC?”

“I love you so much,” you blurt out. You blush again, like you did when you told him that you were gay, and he laughs. He laughs and he drops down to you and rolls over and over with you at the base of the dune, covered in white sand and life and love and sunlight and happiness.

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