“Jason, I was at your house constantly after Leah got sick. Of course I remember the preteen drama.” His voice is gentle, understanding. “I remember when she was having problems with one of the girls in her class.”
“Madison,” I recall. “Yeah, she was a little bitch.”
Victor chuckles. “Right. Madison. Leah and I tag-teamed that crisis. Ice cream and bad movies.”
The memory surfaces clearly now. Victor on our couch with a pint of chocolate chip cookie dough, Kelsey curled up between him and Leah, all of them critiquing some romantic comedy when I came home from Wednesday night choir practice. I’d felt so grateful then to have Victor there, helping shoulder the weight of parenting a bullied preteen while Leah was too weak from chemo to stay awake for the whole movie.
“You were good with her,” I say quietly. “During everything with Leah, you were exactly what she needed.”
“What you both needed, I hope,” Victor says, and there’s something careful in his voice.
I turn to study his profile. The strong line of his jaw, the way his hair curls slightly at the nape of his neck where it’s damp from the steam. “Yes,” I admit. “What we both needed.”
We fall quiet again, but it’s a different silence now. My heart is racing, and I can feel the familiar war starting in my chest. The part of me that wants to reach for him battles against the part that’s spent more than forty years being told that good Catholic men don’t have these feelings.
But I do have them. I’ve had them for a long time, and prayer hasn’t made them go away. Guilt hasn’t made them go away. Fifteen years of silence hasn’t made them go away.
A bird calls from somewhere in the forest above us, the unmistakable liquid gurgle of a Montezuma oropendola, ending in that odd hollow note that always sounds to me like someone knocking on a wooden door. The afternoon light slants across the foliage bordering the pool we’re in.
“Has there been anyone?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Since...?”
Victor raises an eyebrow at me. “Since you, you mean? Yes, Jason, I’ve had sex with other men since you.”
I can’t stop myself from looking around to see if anyone heard that and when I look back at Victor, his jaw is tight.
“I didn’t mean—“ I don’t know what I meant, or what I’m trying to say.
Victor leans his head back against the edge of the pool. “It’s fine.” He’s shifted slightly away from me, though.
I think about how I’d left him naked, covered in come, on my living room floor while I fled to the bathroom to clean up, my mind reeling with guilt and confusion. I was grieving and confused and terrified of what we’d done.
But looking at him now, remembering what he’d said last night, that he’s never regretted it. That he would have done it again any night since, even though I’ve spent fifteen years pretending he meant nothing to me.
My God, what have I done?
“I’m sorry, Victor.”
He turns his head and opens his eyes to look at me. “What for?”
“For how I treated you afterwards.”
He’s quiet for a moment, then nods. “It was a hard night for everyone.”
It’s a gracious out, and I should take it. I should let this conversation end here, let us go back to the careful distance we’ve maintained for fifteen years.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I’ve thought about it. That night. More than I should have.”
Victor goes still. “Really?”
“Yeah.” I keep my eyes on the volcano, because I can’t look at him while I say this. “I’ve thought about what we did. And what we didn’t do.”
The silence stretches between us. The water laps gently against the rocks. Somewhere behind us, Silas laughs at something Logan says.
“Jason.” Victor’s voice is careful. “What are you saying?”
What am I saying? I’m not even sure myself.
“I’m saying that we’re here for a few more days.” I finally turn to look at him. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice you.”
