Page 84 of My Dead Wife's Ex Will Do
Forty-One
Victor
Jason directs us to a restaurant near his brownstone and the hostess greets him at the door like an old friend. It’s midday on a Sunday—prime brunch time—but there’s a tiny table for two at the end of the long bar that’s free and when Jason settles into the chair nestled into the corner like he owns the place, I wonder if they guessed he was going to be here today and kept the table open for him.
“Thanks, Audrey,” he says when the woman brings us menus and fills our water glasses.
“Good to see you,” she says with a faint lilt of an Irish accent. “Wasn’t sure you was coming in today.”
Jason nods at me. “Ran into an old friend and he said he was hungry.” He introduces me to Audrey and she smiles at me before leaving us to return to the host stand, where a large group of people are waiting.
I open the menu and ask Jason what’s good here. He doesn’t open his, apparently familiar enough with the options that he doesn’t need the menu. “I usually get the corned beef hash with poached eggs, but pretty much everything is good.”
The place is bustling. Warm wood paneling and sturdy wooden booths, combined with the carved detail around the bar give it the feel of an old Irish pub, even though I don’t recall that this place existed when Leah was alive.
We talk about our food choices, the weather, my work, Kelsey and Adrienne. The conversation seems smooth and easy, but there’s an undercurrent that I can’t put my finger on. Jason seems distracted, even though he talks as much as he listens. We don’t talk about what happened in Costa Rica between us or whether anything like that might happen between us again.
I don’t tell him how much I’ve missed him.
Or that I think about him every minute of every day.
We drink brunch cocktails—a bloody Mary for me and an Irish coffee for him—and tuck into our food when it comes. The corned beef hash is excellent.
“I’m resigning from Saint Sebastian’s,” Jason says abruptly.
I’m sucking down the last of my bloody Mary and the straw rattles at the bottom of the glass. Jason shoves another forkful of food in his mouth like he’s just announced that he’s going to the gym after work or something.
“You’re what?” I heard him. The words just don’t register. He’s what?
“Resigning. Turning in my notice. Leaving my position.” His eyes are on his plate, where he’s drawing designs with the tines of his fork with runny egg yolk.
“Why?” I ask stupidly.
He looks up at me and raises an eyebrow. Like I should know why. Like it’s so obvious no explanation is needed.
But I don’t know why. He told me in Costa Rica how much he loves his job and how few options exist for a choral director with his background. As far as I know, nothing’s changed about that.
Unless…
I recall how he reached a hand down to pull me up from the church steps, then threaded our fingers together and held my hand for three blocks.
“This isn’t…Not because of…you didn’t decide…” I stutter.
“It’s not because of you,” he says.
“Oh.” Do I sound disappointed? Am I? I’m so confused and thrown off balance that I don’t know what I am.
Obviously, Jason isn’t making a life-changing career move because of me. But then, why?
I flag our server down and point at my empty glass. I need more vodka for whatever is happening here. She nods and looks at Jason, who shakes his head.
“Okay,” I say. “What’s going on?”
Jason leans back in his chair and stretches his legs out under the table. His leg brushes my chair leg and he crosses his legs at the ankles. I can see his navy blue suit pants, a hint of dark socks, and recently-shined black dress shoes.
“I can’t do it anymore,” he says. “It’s everything we talked about in Costa Rica. I can’t pretend anymore that the Church’s stance on same-sex relationships doesn’t affect me.”
“Are you having a crisis of faith?”
