Chapter Text
The hushed sobs and somber faces surround you. A funeral – an odd situation indeed. (Especially when you have no clue who the deceased is.)
How did you end up here? Well, that's a story. Your cafe's become a roaring success over the past few years. So successful, in fact, that your godmother thought highly enough of it to recommend you to her friends (though she always did manage to get a backhanded compliment in there somehow)
One of those friends needed catering for their husband's funeral (you barely dodged bullets on attending the burial itself). So here you are, at this lady's mansion.
Seriously, it's enormous. Definitely has more bathrooms than you have fingers. You can't help but regret having rejected that hot misogynist, when he’d asked to take you out on a date years ago. You'd quite enjoyed being emotionally unavailable Instead, you married Sam. A good guy – smart, kind (mostly), and attractive.
He was a regular at the cafe, completely charmed by Hillary the Guinea pig – a good judge of character, obviously. You'd clicked, things got serious...fast. Like, "moving in his toothbrush after a month" fast. Then, just as abruptly as a dropped quiche (don't ask), it all fell apart after the arrival of your daughter.
Turns out, his ever-present "work friend" turned out to be a tad more 'friendly' than advertised. Shocking, right? You should've maybe, possibly, considered a creative application of nail clippers (regrettably, you didn't). Regardless, you'd shown him the door and unleashed your finest creative profanity on his car – a masterpiece, really.
And well now, here you are, a human canapé holder navigating this McMansion of misery. For hours you've been dodging conversations, which is practically an Olympic sport at this point. You weave through a gaggle of gossiping relatives, their voices like rusty nails on a chalkboard, dissecting the deceased's wife's life with the precision of high school mean girls who skipped straight to bridge club after graduation. Seriously, is this a funeral or a particularly morbid game of "Never Have I Ever"?
Then there's the inappropriately amorous couples who are clearly more interested in fumbling for each other's nether regions than paying their respects. Seriously, people, a funeral is not a Tinder meet-cute. Unless, of course, you're after the "necrophiliac with questionable taste in scarves" demographic.
"Is this vegan?" A woman with a face like a disapproving prune eyes your tray.
"Actually," you reply, plastering on a smile that feels like it belongs on a toothpaste commercial. "it's a magical concoction that grants eternal youth and perfect hair." Her suspicion lingers as she scurries away, clutching her handbag like it contains the Holy Grail. Well there goes a customer.
Right. Time for a strategic smoke break. You deposit the tray on the first unoccupied surface that's not currently harboring a weeping relative, a friend with questionable taste in condolence cards, or a horny bastard who mistook a funeral for a singles mixer. Weaving past your Dad and your Godmother's surprisingly jovial chat with a guest (seriously, what are they discussing? The stock market?), you make a beeline for the backyard, a haven from the bizarre undercurrents of this whole morbid affair.
Relief washes over you as you find a quiet corner by the side of the house, a haven from the funeral's bizarre undercurrents. You're just about to take out your pack of cigarettes ready, for a moment of sweet, nicotine-laced peace, when a voice cuts through the air.
"You got a light?"
You turn around and holy sh—
"Hi!" he blurts, the picture of awkward charm.
"Hi?" I manage, blinking a couple of times. Is this some kind of bizarre prank the universe is playing on me? Maybe I'm hallucinating from too much champagne. Or not enough sleep. Probably both.
"Hi," he repeats, even more awkward this time.
"Hi," I repeat awkwardly. We both launch into a confused, "What are you doing here?" at the same time. A nervous chuckle escapes him, and I glance away, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
Finally, he speaks. "I, uh, heard you got married." His grin stretches a little too wide, like a Cheshire cat with a hangover. But for a fleeting moment, I swear I see a flicker of something darker in his eyes. Sadness? Don't be ridiculous.
My eyebrow climbs up my forehead like a particularly ambitious caterpillar. I press my lips together, desperately trying not to laugh. The urge to unleash a playful jab about his apparent stalking skills is strong, granted not as strong as the urge to jokingly, (not so jokingly) ask if he'd missed me that much he'd kept tabs on me-
"Your, uh, stepmother told me," he blurts, panic flickering across his face like a dying flame.
"Right." I reply, a sly smile playing on my lips.
I don't tell him that I've been divorced for almost a year now. Partially because I want to see if it’d elicit some kind of reaction out of him, and also because I think he might actually bolt like a startled rabbit if he knew. That I'm not some unattainable married lady anymore. No, I'm a very available temptation standing right here.
Why do I even care if he does? Well because I admit, nobody ever quite understood me like him. The priest. The hot priest. My priest. Because after all this time, staring at him across this ridiculous space, a sickening feeling blooms in my gut.
"I love you" "It'll pass"
Maybe "it'll pass" wasn't quite as prophetic as he'd thought it'd be. Maybe after all these years it hadn't actually passed. Fuck.
"That's-" he starts, fumbling for a cigarette. It dawns on me – the only reason he'd even approached me was to ask if I had a lighter. Right. I grab a pack of cigarettes and take one out, lighting my own first, taking a long drag before offering him the flame.
"So, you doing alright then?" he asks after a puff. He's asking me, but he's looking everywhere but at me. "Fantastic." I tell him, a strained smile plastered onto my face "I'm fantastic father."
My priest snaps his head towards me. His face is serious. Like he's only just now realised, who it is he's standing across.
"fuck you calling me father like it doesn't turn you on just to say it."
The woman who’d not only rattled his vows but, ahem, also rattled his... well, you get the picture.
The woman who'd loved him, tempted him, and probably the reason he needs to spend extra time in the confessional booth these days.
He raises an eyebrow, his expression serious. "Why are you here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," I shoot back. He lets out a chuckle, averting his gaze before meeting my eyes again.
"I asked first," he presses, a playful challenge in his raised brow.
"Technically, we both—" I stammer, but he throws his head back with a laugh, cutting me off.
"Clearly, I'm working," he amends, gesturing to his priest's robe. "You, on the other hand...?"
Right. Of course. He’d probably held the sermon. Of course my godmother wouldn't mention him being here before I’d agreed to catering for this event. My priest. He was their priest too, after all– both godmother's and father's. Why would she tell me? It's not like she knew about... well, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. Even if she did, she probably wouldn't have warned me about his presence beforehand.
"Catering," I explain, gesturing towards the mansion. "Fancy a canapé?"
"The café's doing well then?" he asks, taking a drag from his cigarette. I nod, holding his gaze. "It is," I confirm with a smile. "It really is." We stand there in comfortable silence, smoking for a while.
"I should probably get back inside," I say, gesturing towards the mansion to interrupt whatever it was he was about to say.