No. Oh no.

  But then Dalton turned to him and smiled that brilliant smile of his—perfect teeth, hair over one eye—and told him how much he loved him. But Lucas hardly saw it. He was concentrating far too hard.

  “Don’t be mad,” Dalton said. “I’m not. This is a dream come true.”

  “Not mad,” Lucas whispered and concentrated all the harder. Come on, whales. Please. Every bit as hard as he had willed into existence their love story, their ability to marry. Please, please, please. Come to my man. Come to my husband. And just as his head was starting to hurt, truly hurt… it happened.

  A whale came.

  And it was every bit as close as Dalton had ever wished.

  At first it was a spout, perhaps a hundred feet out from them, and that made Dalton give a hop of excitement. That made Lucas so happy. Dalton never hopped with excitement. Then came a second spout.

  And then…

  Nothing.

  Silence.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  Suddenly the whale rose up out of the water, huge, splendid, almost the entire creature, its underbelly so white, the rest of it looking almost blue. So close that when it crashed back into the ocean, water splashed down on them, and thank goodness they were wearing slickers or they would have been soaked. It was utterly incredible, joyous, and yet somehow terrifying. The whale was so very, very big.

  “Now that was tight!” exclaimed the guide.

  Lucas, frozen in that incredulity, that joy, that terror, managed to turn his head and look at his lover and saw a man transformed. Transmuted. Moses having seen the burning bush.

  My God, thought Lucas. His heart soared. What are you feeling, my love? And how could he ever imagine what Dalton was feeling?

  “You are very, very lucky,” said their guide. “This almost never happens. You hit the jackpot with your vacation!”

  But it wasn’t over.

  At that moment, quite suddenly, the whale’s head rose slowly out of the water, pointed upward, until its eye—surprisingly small, no bigger than a baseball, but filled with obvious intelligence—was no more than a few feet above the surface and no more than three feet away (incredible, joyous, terrifying) and looked at them. Just looked.

  Then, that fast, it was gone.

  For the longest time Dalton didn’t say anything. He seemed to be stunned, and why not? Lucas was. The guide—the man who’d said YouTube videos didn’t happen—was. But it was more than that. It was Moses and the burning bush. Lucas was beginning to wonder if Dalton would snap out of it, and the guide and others were getting concerned, asking if he was okay.

  Finally Dalton turned to Lucas and softly said, “You did this.”

  “Me?” Lucas replied, startled by the comment.

  Then, echoing Lucas’s earlier thoughts, he said. “You willed this into existence. I love you so much, Lucas. I will never forget this. Never. You made my dreams come true.”

  “You make my dreams come true every day,” Lucas told him.

  The rest of the trip was just icing on the cake. A cake far better than any Lucas felt he had ever made. After all, the baker of Alaska was God.

  They went to Ketchikan, Alaska’s “first city” and apparently the Salmon Capital of the World! It was there they felt they first saw the “real” Alaska. Glorious vistas of mountains, lakes, huge Douglas firs, low fog, some of the most beautiful clouds Lucas had ever seen. Could there be clouds more beautiful than any other clouds? It felt that way that day, at least.

  But they weren’t whales.

  It started to rain, but just light showers.

  What really surprised them was how pretty much everywhere they went, it wasn’t as cold as they imagined it would be, even when they saw glaciers.

  Their stops included a number of cities, most but not all on islands. Haines and Skagway were next, the latter of which had been visited by Wyatt Earp and Calamity Jane.

  They went through a breathtaking fjord, visited Juneau, found out that moose meat made an excellent hamburger, were amazed by the Mendenhall Glacier (because nothing prepared you for the first look of something so huge and formidable as an actual glacier in real life). It was absolutely blue. Absolutely overwhelming in its sheer existence. Almost otherworldly. And really, wasn’t it? It wasn’t like you saw glaciers off of Oakland or in San Francisco Bay.

  Of course, it wasn’t a whale.

  Next was Sitka, where it rained all day, but they didn’t mind. Strange. Rain on vacations had always ruined things for Lucas, but not this time. It just didn’t seem to matter. And thank God they didn’t get soaked or miserable. Wet, cold, and miserable had ruined a camping trip they took so much Lucas swore he’d never go on another. Thank goodness Dalton changed Lucas’s mind, because the next time turned out to be wonderful.

  The Hubbard Glacier was awe-inspiring as well. It stretched seventy-six miles to the sea, and they couldn’t get nearly as close—about half a mile away, and the glacier was so big their ship looked like a toy beside it. But they had ringside seats. The glacier actually calved, just like in the movies, that mind-boggling phenomenon when giant pieces of ice crack off the glacier and fall into the sea. Well before they got to it, ice pieces that looked like miniature bergs speckled the water.

  But it still didn’t quite beat the utter impossibility of that whale.

  Since their cruise was the last Alaskan trip for the season (the Halcyon would sail to the Caribbean next), most of the clothes at the gift shop were 75 percent off, and Lucas, who loved to shop almost as much as he (still) loved having sex with Dalton, shopped to his heart’s content. They were very lucky in that all the cities they visited had big sales as well in order to get rid of their wares before the winter. Lucas bought what Dalton was afraid was about a suitcase’s worth of whale statuettes for their mantel, made of everything from wood to porcelain.

  Lucas and Dalton didn’t see much of Anchorage because they had to get on the train to go to Denali.

  Oh, and the trip to Denali! It was almost impossible to describe the scenic beauty of that part of Alaska. They were surrounded by huge mountains, covered partly in clouds, for the over eight hours aboard the train, and through its windows they saw waterfalls, fog, snow, and glorious fall colors. All the mountains were yellow and green. It was absolutely breathtaking.

  Denali itself was beautiful, the air so crisp and clear.

  But surprisingly, there wasn’t a town.

  Denali laid claim to the title of tallest mountain in North America, standing over twenty thousand feet. It claimed six million acres of untouched, wild land, pristine beauty, panoramic vistas, and wildlife including grizzlies (they saw bears!), moose (yes, a moose too!), caribou, and Dall sheep (but no whales). But no town, per se. Buildings, yes. Cabins. A row of shops lining the highway, with local gifts, outdoor rental gear for last-minute hiking needs, photography equipment, and art. And a chalet resort center. But that was pretty much it. Lucas would have been disappointed if not for the fact that he abruptly discovered Dalton was perhaps not as ignorant of Lucas’s surprise vacation as he’d thought.

  He quite suddenly wanted to hike down a trail (there had been some whispering and pointing by another of their guides), and the gay couple they’d met on the Halcyon (they were much better now) were doing a lot of giggling and wanted to go with them. They’d walked for perhaps a mile when they came to a clearing under some trees where a man and woman were apparently waiting for them. A minister. And his wife.

  For it seemed that Dalton had been working on something for some time—he’d gotten a permit, tracked down an officiant, and arranged paperwork.

  Dalton took his hand, slipped to one knee, and looking at him in a way that made Lucas’s heart stop, quietly said, “Lucas Arrowood, will you marry me?”

  Lucas was absolutely stunned. Marry him? For a moment he couldn’t think. Marry him? And then when he could breathe, it made sense while being crazy at the same time. Dalton’s words came back to him.

  “Did you think I was just blowing hot air when I said I’d marry you in all fifty states? That I wanted to show the whole country that you’re mine?”

  …and…

  “I think this is probably the only time we’ll ever be in Alaska, after all, tiger. What do you say?”

  “Y-you mean it?”

  “I do.” Dalton nodded and then said, “I do. I really do.”

  Lucas threw back his head and laughed.

  Another marriage license for Lucas Arrowood and Dalton Churchill’s Big Album of Wedding States.

  “What do you say, my love? Marry me?”

  “You better say yes,” said the minister’s wife quite abruptly. “Otherwise, an awful lot of time and energy has been wasted, for goodness’ sake!”

  Lucas looked up from the album into Dalton’s—his husband’s—face.

  Had he ever seen anything more beautiful in his entire life?

  More beautiful than the Alaskan scenery. More beautiful, even, than the whale.

  Then before he could think—

  (as he was wont to do)

  —Lucas said, “Yes.”

  And they did.

  Acknowledgments

  THIS BOOK is a second edition. But for me, it is far more. It is hopes and dreams and spirit and a whole lot of love.

  The original was part of an anthology called A More Perfect Union that I put together where I asked three fellow gay male authors to write stories about marriage. What these three men, and I myself, shared in common was that we all three thought we would never have the chance to be legally married in our lifetimes. But then the Supreme Court of the United States, on June 26, 2015, made the monumental decision that allowed all citizens of that United States to finally be able to marry whoever they wished, and marriage equality became the Law of the Land. What I asked of my fellow authors was to write stories from the heart that expressed those emotions, that love, those dreams and hopes of men who found themselves doing what they never thought they would be able to do—marry. It was an awesome group of stories. I loved that book so much. But sadly, anthologies go out of print.

  Luckily Elizabeth North agreed that my offering, Someday, deserved to stay in print. So, first and foremost, thank you Elizabeth for allowing me to clean this story up a bit and offer it once again for publication! And on a very special week, the anniversary of the SCOTUS decision!

  Thank you also to the wonderful LC Chase for her beautiful cover—she gave me two options, and it was murder picking the one I would go with. Thank you to editor in chief Ginnifer Eastwick for all she did to make this edition happen and all her patience! You really rock. Thank you Andi Byassee for your help with this one. You are a true friend. I also really appreciate suggestions to this story, especially Robert Lawrence and Craig Austin, and the additional hand given to me by my sweet friend Chrissy Miles—love you! Thanks to my husband Noah Willoughby and my mother (!!) for research. And thanks to my other husband Raymond for always supporting my writing.

  I want to include the people here who helped with the first edition, because everything they did is in this new version! So… thanks to my daughter, Jayli. My dear friend Dani Elle Maas for all things Dutch. This couldn’t have been done right without lots of help from Renae Kaye—thank you. Thanks to Noah and Jan Valdez and so many others for their research help. And of course, to Andi Byassee, and Nicole, Jason, Brian, and Stacia for all you did to make this story the best it could be.

  And I want to give a very special thanks to Jamie Fessenden, J. Scott Coatsworth, and Michael Murphy for joining me in the original anthological endeavor. It wouldn’t have happened without you.

  And I must not forget the Freedom to Marry website. Simply wow!

  Once more, Love Wins!

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Until I Found You by B.G. Thomas.

  CHRISTOPHER KNEW something was wrong before he reached the door to his apartment. It wasn’t just the fact that it had been a shitty day in a string of shitty days—seven, to be exact. A week today since he and Graham had broken up. Graham, the one he’d had such high hopes for.

  “This could be the one, Ma,” he’d said on the phone—what?—a month ago?

  No. There was something wrong.

  The chill that ran up his spine wasn’t because he was in an understandably negative mood. He knew something was wrong because Frost wasn’t barking.

  It’s okay, he thought. Frost’s routine had been messed with since Graham moved out, just as it had been when he moved in. But hey. That’s the way it was with a pet. They had to get used to change.

  He’s asleep, Christopher reasoned. He’ll start barking the minute I put the key in the lock.

  But Frost didn’t start barking and, what’s more, the door swung open when he started to insert his key into the knob.

  Another chill washed over Christopher.

  He knew he’d locked the door.

  He was religious about locking the door. Had been ever since a few weeks after he’d moved to the city and someone had broken into his first apartment and stolen his collection of DVDs, his VCR, and the brand new TV his mother had gotten him for Christmas. Now he locked the door if he was going down to get a newspaper from the vending machine outside the apartment building.

  Graham liked to make fun of him about it. Well, used to make fun of him. Past tense.

  Burgled? Had he been broken into again? Were they still there? Was Frost okay?

  “Hello,” he called out, his voice cracking, and slowly pushed the door open all the way.

  He didn’t see anything out of place. No open drawers. The TV was still there. So was his laptop, right there on the coffee table. And he didn’t hear anything.

  Most especially not Frost. He shivered.

  It’s okay, he told himself, the way any pet owner would. Any parent. Any lover. But it was foolish to jump to conclusions.

  “Frost?” he called. “Frosty, baby? Where are you?”

  Now he’d come bounding into the room—all bouncing white fur—startled as hell that he hadn’t heard Christopher come in—looking all embarrassed. The thought made Christopher smile.

  But that didn’t happen.

  Another chill. Please be okay. Please. Please let him be okay.

  Christopher stepped into the small living room, looked to the couch—Frost’s second favorite napping place—and for one moment he thought he saw his dog, clear as crystal, curled up in one of his impossibly tight balls.

  But it was only his hooded sweatshirt—the one from Wagner University, his old college. He’d folded it over to make an extra pillow the night before so he and Frost could cuddle and watch Getting Go, his new favorite gay movie. It was another thing Graham made fun of him for. He did a lot of that. Making fun.

  Just my hoodie.

  The realization was crushing.

  “Frosty!” he shouted suddenly, startling even himself, and then all but sprinted to his bedroom (there was only one, it was a small apartment). This time there was no trick of the eye, no illusion. Not even a white pillow to snag his eye because he’d made the bed that morning, with its navy blue blanket, just as he always did.

  “Why do you make the bed? No one’s going to see it except for the damned dog. We’re just going to mess it up again tonight.” Graham. Picking on him even about that.

  Well, Frost wasn’t seeing the bed today, and he wasn’t sleeping on it. The expanse of the bed—all dark blue, the blue-jean quilt (the one his mother made for him) folded neatly at the foot—clearly showed no fluffy little white dog on its surface.

  The panic set in.

  Christopher looked under the bed, in the bedroom closet, in the bathroom, and even in the tub. All the places a dog might hide, or worse yet, choose to die. Hadn’t he heard that animals would go to a quiet, dark place to be alone when they were ready to die?

  He didn’t find Frost in any of those places, and besides, Frost didn’t hide. Or as least he hadn’t until Graham, with his cursing and shouting.

  Graham could be “the one”? Is that what he’d told his mother? How had he ever thought such a thing?

  But then the Graham Douglas who had moved in with Christopher turned out to be an entirely different Graham from the one he’d been dating for eight weeks. The guy who held doors open, who always offered to drive (and dropped him off at the door that night it was raining), who insisted on buying the drinks and big tubs of popcorn at the movies, and who claimed he loved Downton Abbey just as much as Christopher did, had vanished within a week of moving his stuff in.

  After Christopher looked in all the places he could think of where a dog might go, he turned his apartment upside down (literally; he flipped the couch over on its back as well as pulling open the back of his old recliner) looking in all the places he couldn’t think of.

  Finally, he knew Frost wasn’t there.

  Frost, the fluffy bundle of joy who knew no stranger and loved the entire world, was gone.

  Well. He hadn’t loved Graham.

  “That dog hates me” came the memory of his ex’s voice.

  “He doesn’t hate you,” Christopher would say, but in that very instant—remembering—he admitted to himself that he might have been lying. That he had been. Or at least fooling himself. Wanting it not to be true.

  But Frost hadn’t liked Graham. Not at all. Not from the beginning, and it had never changed. When they met and Graham had held out his hand for Frost to sniff, he’d gotten a growl for his trouble. And when he’d tried to push Frost off the bed—

  (“It’s gross! All those fucking dog germs! Dogs don’t belong on the bed.”)

  —Frost had actually snapped at him.

  A thought popped into Christopher’s head.

  God.

  No.

  Couldn’t be.

  Christopher pushed the idea away.

  Frost hadn’t cared for Graham, but Christopher had chalked it up to jealousy. Graham was the first boyfriend Christopher had actually moved in since he’d found Frost in a dumpster—malnourished, nearly dead, the only one of three littermates to survive—two years before. The other boyfriends had come and gone, most rarely staying the night for sleepovers.