"At least it's not Texas," he says, slipping on his Dior sunglasses, hand in the air like he's hailing a cab.

From his black Range Rover, idling four doors down, Antonio spots him and smiles. He's used to Kurt's big city ways.

Antonio pulls up to the curb, gets out and greets Kurt with a quick hug. "Welcome back."

"Hello, Antonio," Kurt says, smiling for the first time in hours. He takes in Antonio’s appearance. He looks handsome in his new buzz cut, his lemon yellow button-down a nice complement to his olive skin.

"New boots?"

Antonio looks down at his brand-new steel-toed, midnight blue cowboy boots, and nods sheepishly.

"What did your wife say?" Kurt asks, giving him the once-over.

"Um..."

Kurt smirks. "She likes the boots, doesn't she?"

Antonio nods again. "A lot."

"Told you."

Ever the gentleman, Antonio holds open the front passenger door for Kurt and, after he's seated, loads all five of his bags into the back. When he slips into the driver's seat, he notices Kurt is already engrossed in his Blackberry; so he turns on KBAC radio and keeps quiet.

"It's obnoxiously hot, Antonio," Kurt whines, ten minutes into their fifty-minute drive up to Santa Fe.

"That it is," Antonio replies, turning up the air conditioner.

"How do you stand it? Seriously. God."

"I'm used to it."

"I've been back exactly thirty-four minutes and I already want to go home," Kurt grumbles, texting a reply to a design client with yet another care question about his new upholstered walls.

"So, what's on the agenda this trip?" Antonio asks.

"Doors. Doors and rugs, and so help me, if they haven't finished painting the damn kitchen, I'm going to hurt somebody."

Antonio laughs. After four trips, he knows Kurt is all bark and very little bite. They've spent hours together in this very car picking up samples, rounding up laborers, trying to track down obscure artists and muralists and carvers to satisfy the whims of their mutual clients, Clint and Deidre Alexander. He knows he hates coming here. Maybe this visit he'll let Kurt take him around, show him his New Mexico.

"Doors and rugs, huh?" Antonio says.

"And tile. Always tile. Will she ever just pick a tile?"

Antonio laughs again and speeds up now that they're outside of the city limits. "Where's Mr. James? Will we see him around?"

"Stop trying to dodge the question. Did the painters show up, or not?"

"Don't know, actually."

"But you live in the same neighborhood…"

"Not quite. Look, Kurt. I've been up at the Galisteo ranch for the better part of the week at the beck and call of Clint's German colleagues, and before that I spent five weeks out at the San Antonio place. I don't have time to keep up with painters for Wife Number Four's kitchen."

Kurt exhales. "I know, sorry. I really should have hired that project manager, the one from Taos. But she would have killed him, Antonio. She would have pierced his poor little heat-swollen heart and eaten it for breakfast."

This time, there is no laughter; they both know it's only a slight exaggeration.

They're at the base of La Bajada when Antonio asks again. "So--no Mr. James this trip?"

"No. No Mr. James," Kurt replies, eyes on his Blackberry. "And stop calling him that."

"Two weeks is a long time to be away from your boyfriend."

"Husband. Almost," Kurt says, flashing the ring on his left hand while still looking at his phone.

"Right."

"And not really," Kurt continues. "Paul is often called away. We're used to it."

"Oh, okay," Antonio replies, thinking about Sarah, his wife, and the early days of their marriage, when he would sleep on the couch whenever she visited her parents in Boulder. It was only ever for the weekend, but missing her killed him every single time.

"In fact," Kurt says, glancing up to look at Antonio for the first time since he got in the car, "it took us four months to go on three dates because we were both crazy busy. I don't know how we ever managed to get engaged."

"When's the big day?"

"Next May. Or June. We're trying to move a few things around… you know how it is."

"Sure," Antonio says, but he really doesn't. He hears a Joni Mitchell cover on the radio. Can't place the artist, but he likes it. So he turns it up.

Kurt looks at him, raises one eyebrow and says, "Really, Antonio?"

"What? I can't like Joni Mitchell?"

Kurt giggles and the two of them lapse into an easy silence. His texts and emails answered, Kurt stares out the window. The flat, pi�on-dotted landscape gives way to high desert as they approach the outskirts of Santa Fe.

On his first trip, Antonio had pointed out landmarks and places of interest, but the only information Kurt retained was the bit about the mountains. "You can see four mountain ranges from Santa Fe," Antonio had said, with the pride of a fifth generation local. "The Sandias in Albuquerque, the Jemez up by the Lab, the Ortiz over on the Turquoise Trail, and the Sangre de Cristos, which bump up right against Santa Fe."

Kurt smiles at the memory; these are the kinds of facts his father would love to learn. Burt Hummel would want to memorize the names of the mountain ranges so he could tell them to his customers, or the guys in his long-suffering bowling league. Sometimes Kurt memorized facts for him:

"Brooklyn was America's first suburb. Did you know that Dad? It was all farmland, until they built the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Dad, I went sailing with friends up in Lake Superior. Did you know the lake is so big there are ships, giant ships, like ocean-sized ships lost at the bottom?"

"Paris is amazing, Dad. Did you know that the Eiffel Tower was only supposed to be a temporary construction?"

"No kidding?" his Dad would always say, committing the facts to memory.

Except, he hasn't shared any facts with his dad lately. Not for months, maybe longer. Kurt thinks about calling him--he has a good thirty minutes before they reach the hotel--but decides he'll wait and call him later that evening.

Kurt sighs. He never got over missing his dad. Most of his friends spend as little time as possible with their parents, but even at (almost) thirty Kurt still feels the pull of family. Maybe because he really never thought he'd have a brother, or someone to mother him, or the chance to be someone's "Uncle Kurt."

It's been at least a year since he made it back to Ohio. His brother Finn and his wife Erin are expecting their second, a boy, and their daughter Meg is growing so fast, he's embarrassed to admit he has no idea whom she counts as her best friends. "You can't say you really know someone if you don't know the names of at least two of their friends," Rachel used to say.

I really should know the names of Meg's friends. I should know more than her size and color preferences; princess dresses and vintage accessories shipped in ‘brown paper packages' are a poor substitute for face time.

Kurt picks up his phone and scrolls through his calendar, looking for three, even two days he could take off and sneak back to Lima for a visit. "Nothing for months," he mutters.

"I didn't catch that," Antonio says. "Do you need something?"

"No, thanks. Just thinking out loud."

Do you need something?

Antonio's question hangs in the air for a moment and then lands in the pit of Kurt's stomach. He shifts in his seat. He's been feeling out of sorts lately, as if something was off, but he can't figure out why.

If he were honest with himself, he would admit he really hadn't tried that hard to figure it out. He's simply pushed on, filling his days with work and his nights with cocktails and openings and fundraisers. He'd told himself that there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for his irritability: aging. It was the big 3-0 pressing down on his spine, waking him up at 2:15 a.m. with the feeling that he'd left something behind, twisting his thoughts into knots he could never begin to untie. He'd ignored the voice that kept haranguing him with annoying little questions: Is this what you really want? Are you happy? Are you even sure you know what happy feels like? What if there's more, so much more—and what if it's too late to find it?

Kurt shakes it off. His life is everything his little gay-boy-in-Ohio heart could have hoped for, and more.

Do I need something? No. I'm amazing. Everything is amazing. Why would I need anything?

"Almost there," Antonio announces. "Will you have time for some fun this trip?"

"Maybe. I hadn't really thought about it."

"Next week is Fiesta, it's a pretty big deal around here. And there's a benefit concert out at the Santa Fe Opera on Saturday," Antonio offers. "Everyone's excited about seeing Adele."

"Adele? Really? In Santa Fe?"

"It's a benefit for Alex Marin House," Antonio explains. "The people on the board have a lot of connections in the entertainment industry. Most of them are retired producers or agents or writers. Some of them are still in the business. This guy Mitch--he's on the board--he's recording with her right now."

"God, I loved Adele in high school. I saw her in concert in New York, maybe, three years ago. She's still amazing," Kurt exclaims. "Alex Marin House. You told me about that place, right? It's a community center for GLBT youth."

"A shelter. For runaways. Most of them are gay, yeah."

"And your wife works there. Sarah?"

Antonio's entire face lights up at the mention of his wife's name. "Yes. She's the executive director."

"Wow. Very impressive, Antonio."

"She impresses me every day," Antonio says. "I still can't believe my luck."

Kurt smiles, thinking of his fianc�. Impressive is a word most people would use when describing Paul James, too. A brilliant political strategist. New York Times bestselling author. Former development director of the Human Rights Campaign. One of President Cuomo's confidants. Kurt couldn't believe his luck, either.

Do you need something?

Antonio's question echoes in Kurt's mind, interrupting his thoughts again. "What the fuck?" Kurt whispers, hoping Antonio thinks he's just cursing at an email on his phone.

"Would you like to go? To the benefit, I mean?" Antonio asks. "I can ask my wife for an extra ticket."

Kurt sits up straight in his seat and claps his hands. "Oh my God, I just totally clapped my hands like a five-year-old," Kurt says. "I would love to! Oh! What will I wear? You're all so dressed down, here."

"Yeah. Dressing up is black jeans, instead of blue. Nice shirt. Nice boots. But I've seen some folks wearing suits to these things, so just do your thing."

"Okay. Thanks."

Kurt's phone buzzes. He gives Antonio an apologetic look and answers it on the second ring. "Deidre. Yes, I'm here. Yes, he was on time. We're almost there. Tomorrow, yes. First thing. I'll send photos after lunch. No. I'll walk over after dinner tonight. Yes. No, I don't mind walking. Deidre, really, are you sure you're a New Yorker? It's barely ten blocks. Yes. Fine. Of course, darling. I'll phone you later."

"She's a piece of work. I'm not sure how Clint can stand her," Antonio says, grimacing.

"He can't. I do it for him," Kurt says, turning his phone on vibrate and slipping it into his front pocket. "Why do you think they have so many houses? It keeps her occupied. Clint relies on all of us--the designers, the stylists, the art buyers, the fucking dog groomers--to keep her out of his hair."

"I'm just grateful I only answer to him," Antonio replies.

Sitting at a stoplight at the edge of downtown, Antonio glances at the Eldorado Hotel, Kurt's home for the next two weeks. One of only two structures for which the developers have defied the city's building ordinance, the faux-adobe looks down on its three-storied neighbors. He would have chosen something more authentic for Kurt--the Loretto, maybe--but he knows his efforts would be lost on the fashionable man who just wants to get in, get done, and get the hell out of dodge.

Antonio pulls up in front of the impressive hotel and nods to the bellhops, who begin unloading Kurt's bags. "Sure you don't want me to drive you over to the house tonight?"

"No. Go home to your wife. I like walking. That's why I chose this hotel over staying up at that Waves place."

"Ten Thousand Waves. She wanted you to stay up there?"

"Yes. Something about 'divine Japanese architecture' and 'master masseurs.' I don't have time for all that," Kurt says.

"It is pretty awesome. Sarah and I go up there every so often. Wooden tubs. Hot stone massage. Shooting stars--"

"Sounds lovely. And it's so not happening. I want to spend all of my time working on the house. I need this trip to be my last. No offense."

Antonio laughs and hands Kurt the keys to the Alexander house. "If the kitchen isn't done, don't do anything crazy. Just call me. I'll handle it."

"Whatever," Kurt says, flashing Antonio one of his genuine smiles. "Pick me up at ten o'clock? Doors tomorrow, rugs on Thursday."

Antonio offers Kurt a mock salute and then, after sliding into the front seat, lowers his window and shouts, "I'm serious. Nothing crazy!"

Kurt waves him off and marches into the building, a sandy-haired bellhop trailing behind him.

Once in his room, he orders steak salad and goes over his schedule for the next two weeks. He could finish the project this trip, but it will be a miracle if Deidre gives him her final approval. Still, going over his notes is sure to calm the uneasy feeling conjured up by Antonio's unintentionally disconcerting question.

It doesn't.

He hangs up his clothes and considers calling Paul, but decides against it. He knows he won't answer; Kurt can't possibly compete with the fight for marriage equality. National marriage equality. Every state--even Ohio. Finally.

Elected to his second term the year before, President Cuomo wants it done like, yesterday, which means Kurt hasn't seen much of Paul these past few months.

Paul is making history. He doesn't have time for travel check-ins or idle conversation.

People often ask Kurt if he minds, if he's lonely without Paul, if he's frustrated or angry at the situation, but he isn't any of those things. He's ridiculously proud of Paul. And though he does love him, and is excited to spend the rest of his life with him, he doesn't need him. Not like Finn needs Erin. Not like his dad needs Carole. Which is why, in his opinion, they are perfect for each other.

"What I need is a drink," Kurt announces to the empty room.

He leaves his travel jeans on and changes into a robin's egg-blue tailored button-down shirt. Then he heads down to the bar. The Agave Lounge is swank Santa Fe style, small plates and a room full of East Coast tourists, and locals who wish they lived on the East Coast.

He's just starting on his mojito, trying not to think about Paul, or Deidre's unpainted kitchen, or anything at all, when he notices his phone vibrating on the table. When he sees the name on the text, he nearly drops his phone.

Blaine:
Hey, Kurt.

Blaine Anderson.

Holy hell.

Kurt:
Hey, yourself. To what do I owe the pleasure of your text?

Blaine:
I know. It's been awhile. I'm glad you still have the same number.

Kurt:
Of course I do. Why would I change it?

Blaine:
I don't know. Bad breakup? Creepy stalker?

Kurt:
Old friend who I haven't seen in five years?

Blaine:
Four, dummy. And don't get on my case. I called you last year. New Year's.

Kurt:
You're such a good friend. Seriously, are you just bored and thumbing through your contact list?

Blaine:
Nope.

Kurt:
Drunk texting? Because that would be so like you.

We're doing it again. God, how do we always get back here so fast?

Kurt feels that old familiar buzz in his body, as though he can't wait to see what happens next. It's been nearly twelve years since they graduated from Dalton and damn it, Blaine still has this effect on him.

This is what we do. We've always done this.

Kurt can't help but smile, thinking about the early days of their bizarre, intense friendship, when he and Blaine would circle around each other, tease each other, flirt shamelessly with each other, but never land. All those years and they never got to anything.

Kurt thumbs over Blaine's last text. It feels like they've had this unspoken "thing" forever. It's still fun. It may be the most fun he's ever had.

Blaine:
I'm not drunk.

Kurt:
What, then?

Blaine:
I guess I miss you.

Kurt:
Stop. You do not.

Blaine:
I really do.

Kurt:
What exactly do you miss about me?

Blaine:
Your simple, demure, self-effacing ways.

Kurt laughs, actually laughs out loud. Oh, this is fun. Maybe this round of texting will last a few days and he'll barely notice he's stuck in guacamole land, catering to the tacky whims of a bleached-blonde trophy wife.

Kurt:
I miss THIS.

Blaine:
All caps. You must be starved for a good texting.

Kurt:
Are you for real? That's just... bad.

Blaine:
How's Paul?

Kurt:
Excellent. And yours?

Blaine:
You can't remember his name, can you?

Kurt:
Lyle?

Blaine:
No.

Kurt:
Luke?

Blaine:
No.

Kurt:
Come on. Give me a hint.

Blaine:
No.

Kurt:
It starts with L. I know his name starts with L.

Blaine:
Liam. His name is Liam.

Kurt:
How's it going with LIAM?

Blaine:
We're happy. It's nice.

Kurt ignores the tiny pangs of jealousy and reminds himself that they are just friends. Weird, flirty, slightly inappropriate friends; but friends--just friends. And he has Paul. Paul James. Wonderful, doting, fabulous change-agent-for-good Paul James. Blaine has Liam and he has Paul. Lovely Paul.

Kurt:
I'm getting married.

Blaine:
I heard.

Kurt:
Wes?

Blaine:
Rachel. I ran into her in L.A. last month.

Kurt:
Oh.

Oh? Oh? That's all you can say? Can't you come up with some witty remark? Something heartfelt, maybe? Can't you give him a clue--?

Blaine:
Am I invited?

Blaine:
Kurt?

Kurt gulps down half of his mojito and stares his phone.

Blaine:
You still there?

Kurt:
Yes. Sorry. Why not? Just don't embarrass me with one of your serenades. I run in very respectable circles now, Anderson.

Blaine:
Bor-ing.

Kurt thinks about how they got to this place where Blaine wasn't the first person he called with his engagement news, where he didn't call Blaine at all. He did think of him. He just didn't call him. He had thought of him almost right away, in fact. But the realization that he had thought of his old crush just moments after accepting Paul's proposal unnerved him to the point that he couldn't call him.

Kurt realizes he doesn't even know where Blaine is living now. Is he still in Europe? Did he move to L.A. with Liam? A lot could happen in a year.

There was a time when they couldn't go one day without talking, or Skyping, or texting, or seeing each other, let alone one entire year. But that was before they grew up and moved on and went after "everything they always wanted." That was before his hand slipped out of Blaine's grip one last time. That was before Kurt decided to be fucking great at this life, this other life.

Though they rarely saw each other after their sophomore year of college, they remained good friends until graduation, Kurt at Pratt in Brooklyn, Blaine at Berklee College of Music in Boston. But after Blaine took the internship at a recording studio in London and Kurt started an apprenticeship at Blue, a design firm in SoHo, they talked less and less. There were boyfriends, and long hours, and new friends, and never enough time to get beyond catching up. There was a relief of sorts, a relief that somehow made the distance bearable. There was all of that, widening the gap and taking the bridge apart brick by brick.

Except there was also this: this back and forth. They held that "thing" between them up to the light and played with it, kept it close, private, almost sacred.

And this: this tension, this teasing. They dared to think about it. Usually over text, sometimes over email, occasionally over the phone. They indulged in innuendo that anyone else would see as a precursor to sex, so much so that Kurt felt compelled to delete Blaine's texts and emails whenever one of their banter sessions coincided with Kurt having a semi-serious boyfriend.

And above all, this: this abiding love. Their connection, forged in that bright, hopeful time of adolescence, could not be tempered by time, or distance, or updates on their everyday lives.

There was this. There was always this.

Do you need something?

The hair on the back of Kurt's neck stands on end and goosebumps pop up on his arms. It's like Antonio is whispering his stupid question in Kurt's ear like Tinkerbell's psycho, evil twin and he just can't do this now. He's too vulnerable. He'll go too far with it. He might say something true.

Kurt:
I should go. I have an errand to run.

Blaine:
So text while you run it.

Kurt:
I need to focus. Sorry. Text me later?

Blaine:
Did I offend you? You're so far from boring.

Kurt:
Not offended. I really have to be somewhere. Text me later if you want.

Blaine:
One more thing.

Kurt:
??

Blaine:
I like your jeans.

Kurt:
Thanks.

Kurt:
Wait, what?

Blaine:
Turn around.