Page 31 of Saint
Does Elijah play anywhat ifgames with Jamie? Jamie, who is good and earnest and who drinks from his reusable water bottle during the tour like a responsible adult and probably never forgets to wear sunscreen, even in the winter? Does Jamie ever trap Elijah against a kitchen counter and daisy-chain bites around his collarbone? Does Elijah ever text him during the day with instructions for later that night?
I don’t know what’s worse: Elijah sharing those kinds of games with Jamie—or them having sweet, vanilla sex with lots of eye contact and cuddling and eight hours of sleep after.
Because if they are having sweet, vanilla sex, then maybe that’s what Elijah really wanted all along. Maybe I was some wild oats to sow, or worse—maybe I corrupted him.
That’s a depressing thought, and I try to draw comfort from the swish of my habit around my feet as I lead them on to the taproom. At least I’m here now, where I can’t corrupt anyone else, where I can’t distract people from finding outdoorsy fiancés who know the difference between baking soda and baking powder.
That’s got to count for something, right?
20
“Okay, okay,”Brother Titus says to Jamie, “now you have to try the Archangel.”
“Which one is that?” Jamie asks, looking down at the flight in front of him. There’s another empty flight at the edge of the table, and several empty glasses crowded around that. The eight of us at this table have been “hosting” Jamie for the last ninety minutes and have the empty glasses to show for it. A few of the glasses are mine on account of the impromptu drinking game I invented, which is calledDrink whenever watching your ex-boyfriend with his fiancé makes you feel sad.
“The Archangel is our tripel,” Brother Amos answers.
“We call it that because it could knock even the devil on his ass,” Brother Thomas chimes in.
Jamie consults the paper slip he’s secured under the wooden board holding his flight glasses, and then finds the tripel and holds it up to the fading sun. It’s past dinner and prayer time, and with permission from the abbot, we’ve kept the beer garden open after compline for our guest. The lights strung above the garden are turned on now, and it won’t be long until it’s only them and the stars glinting off our glasses in the dark.
The table cheers as Jamie drinks and as he gives us all a rosy-cheeked grin after. “It’s very good,” he declares, and the table cheers again. I cheer too—trying to be good, trying to be happy that Elijah has found a nice boy who bakes bread and helps seniors find new knitting mysteries to read.
I don’t think I ever baked for Elijah once. Why bake bread when you can wheedle your lover into a spontaneous trip to Paris to eat pastries by the Seine? Why bend over a hot stove when you can bend over for your hot boyfriend instead?
Doesn’t Jamie know they sell bread at the store???
“You know,” Jamie says, turning his tipsy grin on Elijah, who gives him a closed-mouth smile back, “this is very different from how I thought it would be.”
“How did you think it would be?” Brother Crispin asks.
“I’m not sure,” Jamie admits. “More monk-y, I guess.”
“We aresoomonk-y,” Brother Titus says. “You just need to know more monks, is all.”
“He knows us now,” Brother Thomas chides him and then looks back to Jamie. “Ask us anything. As your new best monk friends, we’re going to acquaint you with all things monastic.”
Jamie laughs, but Elijah bumps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth tilting up. “It’ll help me with my research, you know,” he says.
“Oh, yes,” Brother Titus agrees. “You should help him with his research. Come on, ask us anything! How much we miss Chinese food and pizza—”
“How much we miss Netflix—”
“And Chiefs games—”
“If we wear underwear under our robes—”
“Why Brother Patrick won’t show us his tattoo—”
I choke on the beer I’m drinking, coughing it down as I shake my head violently. “No. Shh. Stop.”
Elijah lifts an eyebrow at me from across the table, his eyes glittering with mischief. “You haven’t shown these gentlemen the masterpiece that is your tattoo?”
“This is what I’msaying!” Brother Titus bursts out. “The mystery is more than I can bear!”
“It’s from an event in my life that I’m not proud of,” I attempt to explain, and then Jamie—gentle, rosy-cheeked Jamie—says three words I’d hoped to literal God I’d never hear again.
“Ohhh,” he says, his eyes round. “Is this about Flamin’ Hot Aiden?”
