We left Portland in the rearview mirror. We left the crime scene at the Marriott—the wet mattress, the shame, the smell of a man who had almost pissed away his chance at happiness. We drove east, up the Columbia River Gorge, toward McMenamins Edgefield.
If you don’t know it, imagine if a mad poet bought a county poorhouse and turned it into a cathedral for functional alcoholics. It’s a sprawling, brick-and-ivy labyrinth of vice. They brew their own beer. They distill their own whiskey. They grow the grapes for the wine that stains your teeth purple. It is a sanctuary for the thirsty and the lost.
By the time we pulled in, the fog of the previous night’s war had lifted. My hangover was gone, replaced by a dangerous clarity. We weren’t the “Drunk Guy and the Angry Canadian” anymore. We were conspirators. We looked like a couple. We moved like a couple.
We checked into a room that didn’t smell like regret. We walked the grounds. We went down to the wine cellar, where the air was cool and smelled of oak and time. We drank the “Black Rabbit” red—thick, dark, blood-heavy wine. She approved. We took a “Romeo & Juliet” cigar out to the Garcia garden, lit it up by a fire pit, and passed it back and forth like we were sharing secrets.
And then, the Soaking Pool.
It’s a massive, saltwater womb in the middle of the complex. It was a chilly night, the kind that bites your ears, but the water was hot. The steam rose up off the surface, creating a localized weather system. A fog bank. We stepped in, and the rest of the world just… vanished. Five feet of visibility.
We held each other in that warm, salty suspension. We danced in the water, hidden by the mist.
And that’s when the fear hit me.
I looked at her. Her hair was wet, plastered to her neck. Her eyes were locked on mine. And there was this… look. Unconditional acceptance. It wasn’t the hungry look of the “low-hanging fruit” I was used to. It wasn’t the transactional look of a woman looking for a provider. It was just… love. Rolling off her like heat waves.
And it terrified me.
The New James—the “Runaway,” the Saboteur, the guy who keeps a bag packed by the door so he can bail when things get real—he started scratching at the back of my skull.
Run, he whispered. This is too heavy. You’re going to break this. You’re going to hurt her. Get out before she sees who you really are.
I was conflicted. I was still technically married to the wreckage. I was fresh off a breakup with another woman. I was a man built for chaos, not for peace.
But I couldn’t move. I was paralyzed by the quality of her. Her slowness. Her touch. I felt like I’d known her for a lifetime, like we were two old souls meeting up for a scheduled appointment we’d both forgotten we made.
We went back to the room. And this time? There was no “Tantra” performance. No “Alpha Male” posturing to prove I wasn’t a bed-wetter.
It was organic. She took the lead. She rode the horse. And at one point, she just stopped. She froze. She looked down at me, and the air left the room. It was like she could hear the little thump-thump of the Grinch’s heart growing three sizes in my chest. The blood was rushing in my ears so loud I thought I’d go deaf.
I have never said “I love you” to a woman and felt the weight of it like that. In my marriage, I said it because it was the script. I said it to keep the peace.
But this? This energy? This forgiveness? This was new. It was a language I didn’t speak, but I understood every word.
She slept in my arms. No complaints about my snoring (which sounds like a diesel engine dying). No complaints about my restless legs. No “stay on your side.” We were a knot. It was the most incredible, peaceful night of sleep I’d had in twenty years.
The next morning, we woke up. We established a “morning ritual”—a quiet, intimate greeting that we promised we’d continue forever. (The lies we tell in the morning are always the sweetest, because for a few minutes, we actually believe them.)
We went to breakfast at the Black Rabbit restaurant. Everything fresh. Turkey Maple sausage that tasted like redemption. Bloody Marys that tasted like victory. We were laughing. Giggling. Not like cynical adults with mortgages and baggage, but like kids. Like we’d gotten away with something.
And then, the departure.
I kissed her goodbye. She headed north, back to Canada, back to the cold. I headed south, over Mount Hood, a three-and-a-half-hour drive back to Bend.
And I drove in silence.
I thought about her the whole goddamn way. I thought about the mess-up in the lobby. I thought about the grace she showed me. I realized she wasn’t a “Project.” She wasn’t “Low-Hanging Fruit.” She was an Ace. She was the kind of high-value woman I usually pushed away because I didn’t think I could afford the ticket price.
But I had connected. Mentally. Physically.
I got home to Bend. My phone was blowing up. I had five women in rotation. I had friends, users, abusers, drinking buddies waiting at the bar. The whole chaotic circus was ready for the ringmaster to return.
And for the first time in a long, long time… I ignored them all.
I didn’t go to the bar. I didn’t call the Tuesday girl. I didn’t answer the texts.
I just sat in my house, alone, in the quiet. Because I wanted to protect the memory. I wanted to keep the feeling of that Canadian ghost in my head for just one more night before the rest of the world came crashing back in to remind me that I was just a man who liked to break things.
It was the first time I realized that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t want to be the Saboteur anymore.
But by then, I was already packing my bags for the next escape.
