Chapter 18
18
Jonathan
Thursday, 10:04 a.m.
Everything ok? You left in kind of a hurry this AM
Granted it’s been a little while since I’ve done this but I didn’t think I was THAT rusty
Thursday, 3:17 p.m.
…that was a joke
Friday 11:23 a.m.
Are you free for a taharah at 1?
No sorry
Don’t worry about it
Everything ok with you?
Just a really busy few days
Sorry
Don’t apologize
It wasn’t anything I did, right?
Seen Friday 11:30 a.m.
Aaron
Saturday 4:58 p.m.
Why is Jonathan texting me to ask if he screwed something up with you?
Ezra we have done such a good job in life NOT knowing these things about each other
(To be clear: he didn’t do anything, right? I’m not really a fighter but I’ll fight a dude if I have to.)
Haha, no
My honor is safe
Thanks though
OK but then why are you ghosting him
I’m not ghosting him
You kind of are, though
Whose side are you on?
The side of “do you have any idea how hard it is to find good volunteers in this economy”
Wow
Wait. This doesn’t have anything to do with like actual ghost stuff, right?? Like, everything is okay with you?
I’ll text him back.
THAT’S NOT AN ANSWER
Seen Saturday 5:22 p.m.
—
Ezra doesn’t mean to spend the next week avoiding Jonathan.
He does it anyway.
Work gives him an easy excuse. Suddenly the calls are coming in nonstop, which means Ezra’s processing paperwork and following up on invoices and helping with services and there’s always, always something to do. If he’s too busy to respond to Jonathan’s texts, whether he’s asking for help with a taharah or just asking him to coffee, Ezra takes the win where he can get it. It’s a dick move, but every time he picks up his phone and opens their text thread, or lets his thumb hover over his phone number, or scrolls through Instagram and sees another perfectly composed photo of Jonathan’s office or houseplants or latest Food Network–worthy meal, he remembers sitting on the porch with the ghost of the man who should have been the one slipping back into Jonathan’s bed, and he just…can’t.
“For the record,” Ben says out of nowhere as Ezra is taking a mug of reheated soup out of the break room microwave, “this was not what I meant.”
“Jesusfuckingchrist,” Ezra says, putting the mug down harder than he means to, then shaking scalding droplets off his hand. Ben is sitting on the edge of the table, chin on his hand. “What are you doing here? Is Jonathan here?”
“I don’t think it works like that.”
“Helpful.” Ezra reaches for the freezer—he’s pretty sure they keep some ice packs in there, or maybe some frozen peas—and lurches back when Ben appears between him and the freezer door. “Seriously?”
“You’ll kill the nerves if you put ice on your hand,” Ben says, and points firmly at the sink. “Cool water, not cold.”
Ezra turns on the cold tap and sticks his hand under it. It helps, the cool water soothing like a balm. “Thanks,” he says, trying to keep the grudging tone out of his voice as he flexes his hand, watching as the angry red blotches on his skin fade to pink. “Sorry. For snapping.”
Ben shrugs. “I’m past being offended,” he says. He leans against the counter, focusing on Ezra’s hand. “You should be okay in a few minutes. Put a damp cloth on it when you turn off the water. Or paper towels, if you’re not sure if the cloths are clean.”
“Didn’t realize you were such a first aid person.”
Ben’s mouth twitches. “Didn’t realize I spent four years in med school to be called a first aid person, but sure.”
God, of course he was a doctor. “Sorry.” The pain’s faded almost to nothing, but Ezra leaves the water running. “I didn’t know.”
“Guessing you and Jon had better things to talk about?”
No one else calls him Jon, Ezra thinks. “No. I mean—” He turns his eyes toward the ceiling, hopes he’s not about to stick his foot in his mouth. “I try not to ask him about you.”
“Why?”
“Seriously?”
“What? It’s not like I’m competition.”
Ezra’s not sure about that. “Was there something you wanted, or are you just here to remind me about this awkward situation we’re in?”
Ben looks amused. “You’re acting like you’re helping him cheat on me. I want him to be moving on. It’s good for him.”
“Maybe. But I know you’re here. He doesn’t.”
“I’ll give you that one.”
They stand there for a few moments in silence, watching the water spill over Ezra’s hand.
“I took this end-of-life planning seminar when I was in residency,” Ben says suddenly. “The guy teaching it, he was insistent that we should all be talking to our families about what we’d want if something happened to us, even if we were young and healthy. Not just the ‘Who gets your stuff?’ conversations, but the hard ones—you know, power of attorney and DNR and whether or not to pull the plug if you’re a vegetable. I came home and I was ready to just brush it off, but Jonathan freaked out, said we had to do it. I didn’t realize he’d been soaking up every horrible ER case I told him about and putting himself in the next-of-kin shoes. I hated it. He made me do all the estate planning with him, and I complained through every minute. When we left the lawyer’s office, after we got everything signed and notarized, we stopped at a red light, and I remember looking at him and just saying, ‘Babe, I signed all that because I love you and it was important to you, but I swear to God if you die before me, I’ll haunt your afterlife.’?”
Ezra winces.
“Yeah. The irony isn’t lost on me. I don’t want to be haunting him,” he says. “I just want him happy.”
Ezra swallows. “I don’t know that I’m the person to make that happen.”
“Neither do I. But you’ve got a better chance than me.” He pushes away from the counter. “Stop avoiding him, Ezra. You owe him that much.”
Ezra turns off the water, and the stinging returns almost at once. “I know.”