After New Mexico—after massages that sent my soul drifting somewhere between this world and the next—we drank our days into oblivion. And at night, if I missed my daily quota of five love-making sessions, my Amazon blonde would transform into a jealous, wild-eyed tempest. She’d spiral into an emotional hurricane, certain I’d cheated on her during those lonely, sleep-filled hours.
It was a madness I willingly surrendered to.
If you had asked me then, I would’ve told you I was head-over-heels, lost in it, should’ve married her. Maybe that was where the road was leading. But somewhere, somehow, I swerved.
We left Santa Fe behind and pointed ourselves toward Sedona, a bottle of wine between us and the kind of reckless abandon that only exists between lovers who can’t keep their hands off each other.
We rented a bed and breakfast off Oak Creek, away from the tourist hordes. Walked the Slim Shady trail, found a hidden path, and claimed a flat rock like it was our own private temple.
I had come prepared. A bottle of wine. Some treats. Baby oil.
The baby oil was my mistake.
She warned me. I didn’t listen. I doused myself in that shit like a rotisserie chicken, stretched out under the sun like some kind of offering.
A Red Baron biplane made its rounds above us, getting lower with each pass, undoubtedly giving the tourists a front-row view of my woman’s naked body in all its glistening, sun-kissed glory.
Hours slipped by. We soaked up the day, fucked like desperate sinners, and lost track of time in the haze. Then, like a slap from a burnt god, the sun hit—leaving nothing but a searing, inescapable burn.
It didn’t hit me right away. Not until we got back to the room, when the heat started creeping in, my skin tightening, my body stiffening like a sun-dried corpse.
Meanwhile, my woman—mysterious, thoughtful, secretive—borrowed the car. Wouldn’t tell me where she was going.
I was too drunk on love and sun poisoning to care.
She came back hours later, grinning like a thief, holding a package shipped from Newport Beach—a place we’d visited recently.
An artist had caught my attention while we were there. I’d said something about his work. Something small.
And she had listened.
She had tracked the guy down, ordered a piece, and had it delivered for my birthday.
I had been married twenty fucking years, raised three kids, paid for everything they ever needed, and never—not once—had anyone given me something that actually meant anything.
Keychains. Pathetically cheap, empty trinkets—useless baubles that scream mediocrity. That was all my kids’ mother figured a father was worth.
And here was this woman—this wild, fire-eyed, borderline-insane goddess—who actually paid attention.
It wasn’t even about the art itself. The piece was ridiculous—three sock monkeys dressed as Star Wars characters. It could’ve been the goddamn Mona Lisa, and it wouldn’t have mattered.
Because for the first time in my life, I felt seen.
I had to excuse myself to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror—red, blistered, wrecked—and felt something I hadn’t felt in years.
Tears.
It was a raw, painful realization that I had spent my life giving to people who never once thought to give back.
And that maybe—just maybe—I should’ve married this woman.
After our fourth or fifth round of debauchery that night, I knew something was seriously off with my scorched body. I wasn’t just burned—I was blistering, each touch a fresh burst of agony. We slathered on lotion like desperate idiots, as if we could convince ourselves that we cared about our sorry, sizzling flesh. And then, through the haze of pain and sweat, I finally managed to grab a few hours of sleep.
Then at 3 AM, a knock on the door.
The hot air balloon guys.
I had booked this before Sedona, before New Mexico, back when I still believed in making memories that didn’t involve tequila and bad decisions.
My woman was thrilled.
I, on the other hand, was completely fucking immobilized.
Every inch of me was raw. I couldn’t bend my knees. I was the Tin Man without his oil can.
I forced on a pair of pants, waddled like a dying penguin to the van, and got hauled out to the desert.
They handed me champagne, which I promptly pressed to my forehead, desperate for relief.
The cold glass crackled against my skin.
Things were not going well.
Then came the worst part: getting into the basket.
There was no door.
Just a tall-ass wicker prison I had to somehow hurl my stiff, barely functional body into.
I tried to pivot. Teeter. Wiggle.
Two guys grabbed me, hauled my sunburnt carcass over the edge, and every time their hands gripped my shoulders or chest, I died a little inside.
And then—we were up.
The sun was rising, casting the whole valley in gold.
I saw Jerome. I saw Cottonwood. I saw Sedona stretched out beneath me like a dream.
And for a moment—just one brief, beautiful moment—I forgot the pain.
I was weightless. Drunk on the altitude, the silence, the company.
I was happy.
Happier than I had been in twenty years.
Happier than I had ever been in a marriage where I was nothing more than a walking ATM.
Happier than I had ever been in a life where I was always the one giving, giving, giving—never receiving.
That trip changed me.
I walked away different. Lighter. Knowing, for the first time, that I had been living wrong.
And maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t too late to start living right.
