by Indra Vaughn
“Jesus, you’re killing me here. Spit it out already!”
“We slept together,” he whispered.
“You and Imran?” I squeaked.
“No.” He laughed once, covering his face with his hands.
My mouth fell open. “You and Cleo?”
He nodded.
“Shit.” I sat back, reached for my cup, realized it was empty, and drank from his instead. I gagged. “Oh my God, how many sugars did you put in here?”
He winced and let his hands fall away. “I was too nervous to pay attention.”
“Nervous? Why?”
“I don’t know, Ollie. I was afraid I wouldn’t know what to say to you, that I wouldn’t be able to be the friend you need right now. But what was I worried about? Five minutes and I’m spilling my darkest secret.”
“Yeah, we’re coming back to the friend bit in a minute. I can’t believe you slept with Cleo.” I hissed that last part under my breath, and he flinched.
“I know, okay? Believe me, I’ve been beating myself up about it for a long time. I . . . I was lonely, and she was angry, and— I know she’s been your friend forever, Ollie, but that girl is seriously messed up emotionally.”
“Cleo? No, she’s not! I mean, she’s a character, sure. But she’s got a heart of gold and she’d never hurt anyone on purpose.”
“I know that, but she’s also incredibly insecure and . . . you know what? That’s not up to me to talk about. But yeah, Imran found out, and they’re fighting. I don’t think they’ll break up, but you can imagine things have been . . .” He shrugged.
“Ah shit.” I tilted my head to the sky. While I was caught up in my own grief, Thomas had been all alone. And in their own ways, Cleo and Imran must’ve been too.
“And for the record, the only friends I need right now are you, Cleo, and Imran. This doesn’t have to be . . .” Weird, I almost said. But of course it would be weird. A huge chunk of me—of us—was gone. And this thing between the three of them would make things even weirder. Shit. What if we were falling apart? What if I lost them all?
A shiver ran down my spine. One half of me wanted to be left alone, and the other half was terrified my friends would do exactly that.
“Sure,” he softly said. He bumped my knee with his and pulled away.
I stared into nothing. I needed to fix this somehow, but smoothing over quarrels had always been Sam’s strength. “Can you take Monday off from work?” I asked him.
He blinked at me. “Next week? I guess. Summer holidays are pretty quiet at work.”
“Okay.” I picked up my phone and texted Cleo and Imran in one thread and said aloud, “Pack a bag with swim trunks and some hiking gear. We’re going on a long weekend trip.”
“Don’t you have to go back to work?”
I gave him my best sad face. “I’m still mourning. I can take an extra day unpaid.”
A slow smile began to light his face. “Welcome back, Ollie,” he whispered as he gave me a one-armed hug. “I’ve missed you.”
Warmth spread through my body. I realized how deprived of touch I’d been for the past month, after over a decade of having Sam’s arms around me whenever I craved them.
“I’m not completely back yet,” I admitted as I surreptitiously buried my nose in his shoulder. I missed the feel and smell of a guy so badly, I wanted to close my eyes and take a little nap in that circle of safety.
The first thing I did when I made it home was get in touch with Sam’s parents. It was a grossly overdue phone call. My knees were trembling so hard, I had to sit down at the kitchen table as I listened to the dial tone.
“Martine Waterslagers,” Sam’s mom answered.
I sucked in a breath. “Martine? It’s Oliver.”
“Oh, Ollie. I’m so glad you called. I’m . . . Are you okay? We tried to get a hold of you, but—”
“I know. And I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls. I was . . .” I trailed off. If there was anyone to whom I didn’t have to explain how I’d been feeling, it was Sam’s mother.
“I know, love. We completely understand, but there are some things we need to sort out. Are you ready . . . to talk about them?”
“Yes. I’m . . . That’s why I’m calling. I mean, also to say I’m so sorry for the loss of your s-son.”
She was quiet for a second, and I thought she was steadying her voice. “You don’t have to tell me that. I know how much you loved him, and I know how much you’re hurting too. Are you back at work? You could always come for dinner tonight.”
“I’m not, no.” My heart tripped with nerves. “But dinner sounds good.”
“Let’s say about seven?”
“Sounds good,” I said, and my voice cracked. I winced and tried to cover it by clearing my throat.
“It’s going to be okay, Oliver,” Martine told me gently.
I murmured something trivial and ended the call.
For a while I sat and stared at the warm country kitchen we’d spent so many hours in. This house we’d shared for years had started to feel like a temporary place over the past month, like a dream that would dissolve as soon as I opened my eyes and returned to the real world.
But it wasn’t a dream, and while it wasn’t ours anymore, I knew Sam would always be here with me. In the paint we’d chosen and the off-white kitchen cabinets he’d picked out. In the grout between the bathroom tiles and the roses we’d planted together at the end of the yard. Suddenly the thought of having to leave all this behind suffocated me. I squeezed my eyes closed and tried to breathe past the constriction in my chest.
“I miss you so much,” I whispered.
A breeze touched my face, and I glanced around. The window above the sink was cracked slightly, but I didn’t remember opening it. Since I’d be going out that night, I closed and locked it. In the distance, a siren wailed, and I shut the noise out.
A strange energy crackled under my skin, light but undeniably there. I felt like I needed to do something. Although packing for this impromptu trip seemed like a good idea, I wandered up toward Sam’s art room instead. It sat right under the roof and got hot in the summer but, because of opposing windows, remained bearable when there was a breeze.
It was stiflingly oppressive in there now, so I opened the windows and inhaled the fresh air as it mingled with the scents of paint and turpentine. The smell reminded me so much of Sam and how he’d always made me feel when I found him working on his art, paint-stained and focused. Arousal built in the depths of my stomach as I remembered how we’d ended up on the colorful tarp more than once, sticky with paint and our release, because I couldn’t keep my hands off him.
The liquid heat in my belly felt strange at first. It had been almost a month since I’d experienced anything like it. At least I hadn’t lost that. I vaguely planned to have a lazy evening with a bottle of wine, a hot bath, and my right hand soon.
Paintings lined the walls, some framed, some not, all stacked together to be given away, painted over, or thrown out. Sam never sold his work. That wasn’t why he painted. I had no idea what to do with them all now. Even touching them seemed impossible. Maybe I’d leave them here and they’d be forgotten until, in fifty years’ time, someone opened up the attic and found them.
In the middle of the room was his easel. On it stood a large covered painting: his gift to me for our wedding. I took a hesitant step forward and touched the white cloth. I closed my eyes and let myself imagine for a moment.
In another world, an alternate universe maybe, one where I hadn’t insisted on going to the Nine Barrels, where we’d gone home and curled up in bed and made love until we fell asleep—in that world, I saw us standing here, our hands entwined, wedding rings still heavy, unfamiliar weights on our fingers.
Close your eyes, he’d say, and I’d obey him. I’d do anything for him, this handsome man whom I loved more than life itself. Maybe his tuxedo shirt would be unbuttoned. Maybe the bow tie would hang loose over his shoulders. Maybe his pupils would be larg
e and his smile would be crooked the way it always was when he got a little inebriated. Close your eyes, and he’d guide me over and remove the cloth and stand behind me and hold me and say, Open.
I opened my eyes. I was all alone. Nothing had changed. The world hadn’t shifted on its axis. I was still responsible for the death of the only person I’d ever loved with all my heart. The breeze ruffled my hair. I couldn’t lift the cloth. Not yet.
Instead I went down to our bedroom and cried a little over the fresh sheets that smelled only of me now. I pulled one of his sweaters out of a drawer. I savored them like a pile of stolen candy. Only when I couldn’t bear the loneliness did I take one out to smell and hold close. I knew his scent wouldn’t last forever, so I was careful with it. Made sure I didn’t get used to it, so every whiff of it was the sweetest torture.
When I had my breathing under control, I tucked the sweater back and closed the drawer tightly. I packed a bag for myself, indulged in spraying the clothes with Sam’s cologne, and took a shower when I noticed my face was blotchy and puffed up.
I could drive to the Mathieu-Waterslagers household with my eyes closed, I’d been there so often over the years. They lived outside of Antwerp, in a village where cows still crossed the streets to their stables, and the farmer still brought milk to people’s houses.
Their house was quaint but beautiful, surrounded by the most immaculate garden I’d ever laid eyes on. White roses climbed a trellis and provided a roof above the path that led toward the front door. I parked my car in front of it, pushed the little yellow gate open, and walked on a cloud of geranium scent.
Closer to the front door, mint grew in a tight bush, kept low to the ground. It sneaked between the steps up to the door. As I brushed it, I thought of summers spent in the south of France, like I always did. My parents never traveled farther than the Belgian coast, but once I became friends with Sam, his parents had taken me on their annual vacation every year. Even during those hot drives down the Autoroute du Soleil, our being together had seemed inevitable.
As kids we’d bounced in our seats for fourteen hours straight, giddy on excitement and whatever sugary treats we’d stuffed our faces with. As we grew older, the excitement had turned inward, to a darker, more forbidden place. A combination of yearning and fear that would lead us to find hot, dry places, the earth cracked from lack of moisture, the typical herbal scent thick in the air as we learned to know each other in whole new ways.
A bee buzzed through a bunch of lavender. Martine opened the door before I could knock.
She didn’t say anything. She looked at me and began to cry as she threw her arms around me. I held her as she tried to speak, but it took her forever to get the words out.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed eventually. “I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but seeing you is like seeing a little bit of him again.”
I nodded as I tried to stop myself from crying. I vowed I’d come see her whenever I could, no matter where the future took me. These people had been in my life since I was ten years old. They were like a spare set of parents.
“Martine, let the boy inside.”
I looked up to see Simon standing there. His eyes were a little damp, but otherwise he was smiling. He looked thinner. Older. I’d never know if Sam would have aged the same way. Martine let go of me and dried her eyes as Simon shook my hand. He held it fast between both of his for a long moment.
“It’s good to see you,” I said, starting to feel choked up again. Those damn Mathieu eyes.
“Let’s get the awkward stuff out of the way first,” Martine said as she guided me through their gorgeous villa. Simon followed us into the kitchen and gave me a Stella when he grabbed one for himself. I didn’t particularly like that beer, but I said nothing and sipped it. Martine put grapes, cheeses, and crackers on the table. I would have protested, but this was what she always did when we came to visit. It was nice, in a way, to know some things never changed.
“We know Samuel left you the house,” Simon said, “but we wanted to talk to you and see if we couldn’t come to an agreement.”
My spine stiffened. I set the beer bottle down on the table. I glanced at Martine, but she resolutely kept her eyes on whatever she was fiddling with by the cooker.
“What kind of agreement?” I asked carefully.
Simon pressed his lips together and swallowed hard. “We talked to a lawyer, and we stand a good chance to win if we contest the will.”
I stared at him. “Contest Sam’s will?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
“Obviously we don’t want it to come to that,” Martine quickly said. “We just want to talk to you. See where you stand on the idea of giving up the house.”
Simon sent her a badly concealed look of irritation. “The point is, it wasn’t fair of my mother to cut me out of such a large part of my inheritance and pass it on to Samuel. I could’ve fought it harder back then, but Sam is my son . . .” He winced and took a sip of his beer. “But now it’s being passed on to you while you two weren’t even married yet. Can you see how that’s not really fair?” He sighed and gave me a sympathetic look. “That house is far too big for just you anyway, Oliver.”
My heart was thudding so hard I could see my chest move when I looked down. Sam had drawn up that will long before we had any kind of money to our names. There hadn’t been any mention of his bank accounts in the will. So his money—a substantial amount—had gone to his next of kin, his parents. I hadn’t minded, at the time. With a roof over my head and a steady income of my own, the money had seemed trivial.
“What—what do you suggest?” I croaked. Part of me thought he was right. The house was too big for me, and maybe it shouldn’t be mine. It’d been in their family for generations. But the idea of giving it up . . .
“Maybe we should do this some other time,” Martine said. She stood by the cooker, a dripping spatula forgotten in her hands.
“We want to sell it and give you half of the profit,” Simon said. “But we won’t make you move until you’ve found something you like. You can pay us a little rent.”
Until he mentioned the word “sell,” I had felt completely numb. Now, a low-grade rage burned in my belly. They weren’t even planning on keeping it? I would have to pay to live in my own house?
I lifted my head. Simon looked slightly mulish while Martine looked scared. “What happens if I say no?”
“We go to court.” Simon’s voice hardened. “We don’t want to take that route, but we will if we have to, and it will cost us both a lot of money, Oliver. So think about that carefully.”
“If all this had happened a month later, the house would’ve gone to me anyway and you wouldn’t have been able to fight it.”
“But you weren’t married.” Simon’s fist was tight around his beer bottle. “We’re trying to be reasonable.”
“Simon,” Martine said, pale and on the verge of tears.
My heart beat harder, faster, the blood thrumming through my veins. “You want me to leave the house that was ours. That we were going to share for the rest of our lives. And you expect me to be happy with a lump of money?” I shook my head. “It’s my home.”
“Ollie,” Martine implored, her eyes darting between me and her husband. “Please don’t make any hasty decisions. Think about it first.”
I nodded slowly. My eyes felt dry and gritty. I couldn’t even tell anymore if that meant I was about to cry or if I’d completely run out of tears. I whispered, “What do you think Sam would say if he knew about this?”
Martine began to sob quietly, and Simon gave me an angry look. “Maybe you should go.” Simon stood. “And think about this, before either of us says anything we’ll come to regret.”
I opened my mouth to snarl something mean, but I felt the ghost of a handprint on my shoulder, the whisper of a breath against my ear. Easy now. I rose to my feet. Without saying another word, I left.
I got in my car, drove a hundred yards, and pulled over. I stared
into nothing. This was a side of Simon I’d never seen. Back when Grandma had left the house to Sam, he’d dealt with most of the fallout. I knew at the time it’d been happening, but it hadn’t seemed all that urgent. Not to me, at least. We’d both been young and on the verge of starting our adult lives together. Back then I didn’t care what house we lived in. Now, thinking of Sam facing his parents like this made my stomach turn.
With shaking fingers I dialed Cleo’s number. I told her the whole story and finally began to cry with anger.
“I don’t even want it!” I yelled. “I don’t want the house or the money. I want Samuel. I want my Sam.” And it hit me, truly hit me, maybe for the very first time with full force, that I’d never, ever see him again. That his body had been burned, his ashes collected and spread on the wind in the backyard of his parents’ house. He was gone. Completely, utterly, gone.
I heard Cleo cry on the other end of the line. “I know,” she croaked. “I know, honey. But don’t give up on the house. You do want it. You love that place.”
I felt terrible after I calmed down. Both in body and in mind. These were his parents, and I’d expected to share my grief with them. Instead I dragged it around all by myself.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and Cleo sobbed in my ear.
“Don’t be. They’re being assholes. You loved him so much. It should be a relief to them to know he was loved like this. That he had someone like you in his life. Instead they’re ruining his memory.”
“Maybe I should just let it go,” I mumbled, suddenly exhausted. “The house is too big for me. They’re right. Maybe it’s not meant to be mine.”
“Well,” Cleo said firmly. “Samuel disagreed.”
“I’m coming!” I yelled the next morning, as if Thomas could hear me through the house, onto the street, and into the car he was honking from. I hastily poured coffee into a travel mug, nearly tripped over my bag, almost forgot to turn off the coffee machine, had to go back for my keys, and finally pulled the heavy front door shut behind me.