In normal situations, at any other restaurant beside this and T’Chai Nanni, I’d just smile and be polite and say things were great, how are you? But this was Jason. Jason, who would spend his slower days sitting at the table with us and talking about his dissertation on gender roles in comic books and, occasionally, moan about his boy troubles. Surprise surprise, backwoods Michigan wasn’t teeming with gay men.
“Yeah,” I said. “We . . . we lost a student this weekend. So campus is pretty much closed down.”
Jason’s face immediately switched from charming server to normal, concerned friend. “What do you mean? Dropped out?”
“Suicide,” I whispered.
“Shit. I’m sorry, guys. I hadn’t heard.”
“It’s okay. That’s why we’re here—trying to get our mind off things. Anyway,” I said, shifting into a lighter tone, “this is Chris.”
Jason held out his hand and introduced himself, then handed us a few menus and let us choose a table. We sat near the front windows, as far away from the other customers as possible. I didn’t intend to talk about Mandy, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come up on its own. Chris sat first, and I sat across from him. Ethan didn’t even hesitate when sitting beside Chris; he probably didn’t want the poor guy to feel like the third wheel. Jason disappeared behind the back curtain and came out a few minutes later with a ceramic pot of jasmine tea and four tiny cups.
“Just in case,” he said, putting the fourth cup in the empty spot beside me. Which, I knew, translated to, Hopefully, these other guys will leave and I can sit and drink tea with you.
Ethan poured the aromatic tea in each of our cups, starting with me and leaving himself for last. He raised his cup between thumb and forefinger and held it out to us.
“To Mandy,” he said. We all held up our teacups, clinking the black ceramics delicately.
“To Mandy,” we repeated.
Outside, the snow began to fall.
? ? ?
The place emptied out a few minutes later, halfway through our appetizers of edamame and fried tofu and miso soup. And yeah, I felt a small note of pride at the condescending looks we got from the well-dressed patrons as they left, as if we were the ones intruding on their sacred space. Little did they know it was quite the opposite, as proved by Jason, who went over and flipped the door sign to CLOSED the moment the last table left, giving us a conspiratorial wink. When he returned, he bore eight different maki rolls, only five of which we’d actually ordered.
“I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said as he set them down. “You guys look like you could use something positive today.”
“You have no idea,” I muttered. Jason smiled again, then went to the back to grab a fresh pot of tea before returning and sitting down beside me.
I glanced to Chris, who watched the whole exchange with a strange sort of fascination, like he wasn’t used to people acting like, well, people around him. Must have been part of coming from money.
“Thank you,” Ethan said. He was trying very hard not to stare at Jason as the guy poured us tea. He’d had a crush on the waiter since day one, but had always deemed Jason “too old.” I think he was just scared of putting himself out there. At least now he had Oliver to hold his attention.
“No problem,” Jason replied. He poured some soy sauce in a dish and began mixing in wasabi. “Are you guys doing okay?”
I shrugged and took a sip of soup, looking out at the lake.
“We’re managing,” Ethan said.
“So . . . Chris, was it? What are you studying?”
“Art,” Chris replied. “Painting, more specifically.”
“Very cool. How’d you all meet up?”
I looked to Chris then, wondering what he’d say, but it was Ethan who answered.
“We’re presenting our theses at the same time. Solidarity in insomnia, you know.”
Jason chuckled. “I know that one.”
Conversation drifted into the usual small talk as we ate the sushi—how were classes, how are your projects going, plans for the summer, etc. The entire time, I was acutely aware of Chris’s glances over. But he was sly about it, never quite making eye contact, passing it off as looking to Jason. No one mentioned Mandy, though it was clear from the stretch of silences that that was what everyone was thinking about. I could practically feel her, watching. Every time I looked out the window I expected to see her hovering there, translucent, begging through silent lips to—what? She’d committed suicide. That was that. There wasn’t any avenging that needed to happen.
I didn’t have anything to do with it.
A crow flew past, and I knew, in that moment, that I probably, somehow, did.
“Still unhappily celibate,” Jason said, and I realized I had no idea what the start of the conversation had been. I glanced over while he talked to Chris. “What about you? How’s the love life?”
Chris had the decency to blush. But he also had the indecency to look my way. I know Jason caught it, but he at least was able to hide most of his grin.
“Single,” Chris said. He took a sip from his tea and didn’t say anything else. Ethan’s smile would have given the Cheshire Cat’s a run for his money.