Patchwork Paradise

by Indra Vaughn

  Thomas had managed to squeeze his Peugeot into a spot the size of a handkerchief. I hurried over, tossed my bag in the trunk, and claimed the passenger seat when I saw it was empty.

  “Hey!” I said, then noticed the backseat was empty too. I met Thomas’s steady gaze. “Where are Imran and Cleo?”

  “They’re driving separately,” Thomas said, and he winced slightly. “Cleo said they had a lot to talk about.”

  “Oh.” I settled in my seat and pulled the safety belt across my chest. “Well, that’s good, right? I mean, maybe they’ll have argued themselves out and made up again by the time we get to the Ardennes.”

  “Or they’ll kill each other on the way there.”

  “They won’t.” I hesitated. “Will they?”

  Thomas gave me a crooked smile. A flop of his thick brown hair fell over his left eye, and he pushed it away. “No, probably not. Listen, Cleo told me what happened with Sam’s parents yesterday. I’m really sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  “Are you okay?”

  I shrugged. “It stinks. But I’m not rolling over without a fight.” I looked back at our—my—white front door, and my resolve tightened. “This is my home.”

  “Yes, it is,” Thomas said. “And if there is any way I can help, you let me know.” I nodded but said nothing, so he let it go. “You have the address? I can put it in my phone.”

  “Oh, yes.” I lifted my ass and groped in the back pocket of my jeans until I managed to extricate the rumpled brochure.

  DON’T MISS OUT ON KAYAKING AND HIKING IN THE ARDENNES, it read.

  I spelled out the address, and then we were on our way to Bouillon, a beautiful town in the French-speaking half of Belgium.

  My first vacation without Sam.

  Just like that, the hustle and bustle of the morning was forgotten, and my good mood evaporated completely. I stared out of the window as we left my house behind.

  “He would’ve wanted this for you,” Thomas said. His hand hovered in my direction, but he pulled it away again and put it on the shift stick. “To get away for a bit, I mean.”

  “I know,” I said. It didn’t comfort me at all.

  In no time we hit the E19 and cruised along with a minimum of traffic—for Belgium. Thomas didn’t say much, and I preferred it that way. He hummed to the music every now and again, but seemed to catch himself each time. It never took long before his fingers began to tap on the steering wheel and he was humming again. He had a playlist going with all my favorites. The National, Editors, Iron & Wine. I wondered if he’d known, or if our tastes were really that similar.

  After about an hour, I was humming too, and we softly sang the lyrics to my favorite song together. We weren’t looking at each other, but I could tell from the note in his voice that he was smiling.

  “Why Bouillon?” he asked when we had passed Brussels.

  “I went there on a school trip once,” I said. “I was a sulky prepubescent boy who didn’t care about anything.” Anything but Samuel. “But I cared about that place. I didn’t tell anyone, of course.”

  “Of course,” Thomas said. I glanced at him, and he was grinning at the road ahead.

  “It’s beautiful,” I simply said. He nodded, like he didn’t need anything but my word to believe me.

  The playlist came to an end. Because the silence felt so natural, neither of us noticed until we drove into Namur and hit a traffic jam. Thomas fiddled with the radio for a bit to see if he could get an update on whether it was an accident or everyday madness, but in the end he smiled sheepishly at me.

  “My French is shit,” he admitted. “Flemish and English are the only languages I can manage.”

  “I can listen,” I said, turning the volume up a little. “Sam’s—” I choked on his name, and Thomas’s expression was full of sympathy. For some reason that made me push on. “Sam’s family on his mother’s side is from Dinant. When his grandparents were still alive, they came over sometimes, and they were very strict about him being able to speak French. Every Saturday his parents spoke only French all day long.” I shrugged. I’d been subjected to that from age ten, and it’d helped me tremendously in French class.

  “That’s pretty cool,” Thomas said. “My mom’s American.”

  I whipped my head around and stared at him. “I had no idea,” I said. He spoke so very little of his family.

  “Yeah. Dad met her when he went on a cross-country camping trip when he was twenty-one. He traveled from New York to LA, met her in Chicago, and she tagged along the rest of the way. They dated long-distance for a year while she finished college, and then she came over here to work at the American embassy.”

  “But that’s in Brussels,” I said. “How did you end up in Bazel of all places?”

  The traffic jam moved a little, and he eased off the clutch. “She went back to the US when I was five. My dad was heartbroken. He couldn’t stay in Brussels anymore, so he got a new job, new house, new everything. He went into construction and made good money, really. He’s pretty pleased with his retirement anyway.”

  “Your dad raised you all alone.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “That can’t have been easy.”

  Thomas shrugged, but I saw the ache in his eyes. “I don’t remember any different. I don’t remember her apart from the odd photograph. She never contacted me.”

  “I’m sorry.” I put my hand on his over the stick shift and squeezed lightly. He offered me a small smile.

  “Can’t miss what you don’t know,” he said, but I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “Thanks for telling me.” I realized I was still holding his hand and let go. “I wondered why you didn’t talk much about your parents.”

  “What about you? You lost your dad young too, didn’t you?”

  I nodded and stared out of the window. He misunderstood my silence.

  “I’m sorry.” He turned the radio down. “I didn’t mean . . . to remind you. Of more pain.”

  “It’s okay.” A raindrop landed on my window, and I traced it as it raced down. More drops fell. Traffic sped up, and instead of rolling down, the rain ran sideways. “That’s an old pain. I’m used to it. I still miss him, but . . . he didn’t . . . die in a nice way. If there is such a thing. When he was gone, it was a relief.” I’d had a long time to say good-bye to my dad, at the end, he was so ready to go, it hurt to see him fight to breathe.

  “Was he sick?”

  “Yeah. Colon cancer.” I didn’t want to talk or even think about that, because facing the fact that someday that could be me . . . I wasn’t strong enough just then.

  “I’m sorry, Oliver.”

  I gave him a little grin. “It’s okay, Thomas.”

  He laughed. “This is all very heavy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Do you think Cleo and Imran have killed each other yet? Maybe I should text them.”

  “I bet they’ve pulled off the road to screw in the backseat.”

  I’d been reaching for my phone and gingerly put it away again. “That’s a visual I don’t need.”

  He looked at me curiously before turning his attention back to the road. “So you’ve never? With a girl?”

  “God no.” I shuddered. “Never even considered the notion. Besides, when would I have? I was with Sam from . . .” My voice died out.

  “When you were sixteen, I know.” He shifted in his seat. His voice sounded odd when he said, “It’s going to come back to this for a long time, isn’t it?”

  This? Did he mean pain? Loss? Five minutes of reprieve before remembering I should be in pieces, not enjoying a mini road trip with a good friend?

  “Yeah,” I said, grinding my teeth. “It’s going to come back to this for a long time.”

  Thomas sent me a contrite look, but I didn’t want his apology so I looked away. When I didn’t say anything else, he turned the music back on. One song in and he was humming again. I relaxed a little and closed my eyes.

  I dreamed of Sam. There�
�d been snatches of him in my sleep before, but not this vivid. The scene felt like an overexposed photograph, with a sharp light—the sun?—surrounding us in a crisp white halo. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I couldn’t even tell where we were. I thought I felt sand under my feet, and maybe there was the taste of salt in the air. My head was resting on his shoulder in a way that would be uncomfortable soon, but in that moment I didn’t feel it. The light danced around us, and we watched it. I felt his warmth. I heard his breath. Forever and ever we remained suspended in timeless silence. Peace I hadn’t experienced in weeks enveloped me. Then his touch—on my cheekbone, down my jaw. His thumb skirted my chin.

  “Ollie?”

  “Hmm.” I smiled. His voice sounded deeper, softer than I remembered.

  “Ollie?”

  His fingers in my hair.

  “Ollie, we’re here.”

  I sat up with a jerk and stared into Thomas’s eyes. “Oh. Shit. I dozed off. Ow.” I rubbed my neck, and he winced.

  “Yeah, you didn’t look comfortable, but I figured you could use the sleep.”

  “Thanks.” I felt self-conscious for a moment, wondering if my contentment had bled through into the real world. I waited for the crash of reality, but it didn’t come down as hard as it had in the past month.

  Thomas still stared at me, worry lines creasing his forehead. His deep, dark gaze traced my face. I could tell he wanted to ask me if I was okay, and I was oddly grateful he didn’t. He’d pulled his hair into a bun at the back of his head. A few wisps escaped and drifted along his slightly stubbled jaw. Which was when I noticed the windows were open. The sweet herby fragrance that spilled into the car betrayed we were indeed no longer in Antwerp.

  I broke the strange moment and looked around me. Bouillon sits tucked in the arm of the river Semois, and over it presides the gorgeous Château de Bouillon. On my school trip years ago, we’d wandered the dripping underground passages that disappeared into the hillsides, imagined the worst of dank prison cells buried in the bowels of the beast. It’d been built in nine hundred and something—I couldn’t remember the exact year—with Godfried of Bouillon its most famous occupant. We used to like imagining what it would’ve been like to live in the Dark Ages. It had all sounded wonderful to two adventurous little boys. Knights, horses, romanticized wars. Now I realized it must’ve been pure hell.

  These days people could visit the castle at night if they liked to scare themselves, or during the day to see bird shows with hawks and eagles. I didn’t think it bore much resemblance to the reality of the castle’s heyday.

  “We can go see it if you want,” Thomas said, and I startled guiltily. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

  “Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t want to diminish my perfect childhood memories by realizing the castle wasn’t as grand and impressive as I’d thought back then. I smiled at Thomas. “Maybe.” I took a closer look around. “So this is it?”

  “Yep.” He grinned. “You did good.”

  We were parked on the Boulevard de Vauban, the road that followed the river. On one side the water looped around the town, while on the other side, buildings and houses hugged the foot of the hill upon which the castle perched like a slumbering dragon. Our apartment waited in one of the white houses to our right. To be honest, I’d spent a lot more money on it than I usually would, mostly because it was high season and everything else was booked, but also because I wanted my own bedroom.

  “Ready?” I asked Thomas. When he nodded, I stepped out of the car.

  The apartment that was ours was a top one, a sea of white and gleaming silver fixings. When we entered, we walked under a huge arch that led into the kitchen, which was open plan and gave way to a living room with a view that made us both gasp. The river seemed to run at our feet underneath the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond that lay the impossible green of one of Belgium’s biggest forests.

  “Jesus,” Thomas breathed. I didn’t think he noticed he was clutching my arm, and I didn’t draw his attention to it. When I turned to him to share the ecstasy of the view, I saw he was pale as a ghost.

  “Oh my God. Are you okay?”

  Sweat pearled on his lip and his suitcase slipped from his fingers.

  “Yeah. I’m really . . .” His eyes flicked to mine and away again. “I’m a bit afraid of heights.”

  “A bit? We’re not anywhere near the window!” I wanted to laugh, but he started to turn green. “Okay. Look at me.” His dark-chocolate eyes zeroed in on mine. “Are you fine with stairs?”

  He laughed reluctantly. “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s go pick your bedroom, and I’ll see what I can do about these windows.”

  He bit his lip. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

  “No, man.” I gripped his shoulder and turned him around, dropping my own luggage so I could pick up his. “Everyone has something they’re afraid of.”

  For a second I worried he’d ask me what my fear was, but he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t need to.

  The staircase that led up from the kitchen to an open landing was a work of art, a spiral made of oak, sanded and stained with extreme precision. We found him a bedroom that faced the hill and the castle—it was actually the biggest and nicest one, but Imran and Cleo would have to deal. While he got settled, I hurried back downstairs and drew the huge voile curtains across the windows. We’d still be able to see the view, but it was less there. I grabbed my own suitcase and picked the smallest bedroom, since it was just me.

  Above the bed hung a gorgeous painting of the view Thomas would be avoiding so desperately. Such an exact copy had most likely been painted by someone who’d stayed here at least.

  Sam would’ve liked it, the rough oil brushstrokes from up close, the fragility of the leaves on the trees from afar.

  I wish you were here, I thought.

  I know, he said in my mind.

  The room was nice, but hot, since it sat under the roof, and I opened one of the slanted windows. I unloaded my suitcase into the white double-doored closet, changed into a fresh T-shirt, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. The four-poster bed with its gently swaying curtains and thick yellow bedding looked really inviting, but instead of falling face-first into blissful oblivion, I made my way downstairs.

  Cleo and Imran still weren’t there, but I found Thomas rummaging around in the kitchen.

  “Not much here,” he said. “We have water and some cans, but nothing fresh.”

  “Want to go find a store while we wait for the others?”

  He emerged from the fridge. He’d wet his hair and pulled it back in a ponytail that sat low on his neck. A couple of strands stuck to his throat, and a droplet of water was running down his clavicle and into the V of his shirt. Thomas had the nicest body I’d ever seen on a guy, and it was easy to understand why he had no trouble going home with someone new whenever we went out.

  “You look better,” I said.

  “Yeah, I feel better. Want me to google a supermarket?”

  “Let’s go out and walk until we find something.”

  He clutched his heart. “No GPS?”

  I laughed. “It’ll be an adventure.”

  We wandered through Bouillon, and I felt that same sense of gentle happiness I’d experienced when I was eleven years old. Something about the water and the hills and the greenery called to me, along with the ever-present shadow of the protective castle reigning over it all.

  “You’re smiling a lot,” Thomas said. When I glanced at him, I noticed his cheekbones were growing red. I needed to remember to buy some sunscreen.

  “It’s good to get away for a bit.” The wind tugged at my hair and blew it in my eyes. I should get it cut soon, really. But Sam had always liked it longer.

  Thomas shoved his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts. “Are you doing okay? I mean, I feel like we haven’t talked about . . . Sam.”

  “I know. It’s still hard. I understand he’s not coming back, but sometimes I feel l
ike he’s here. I’ll be in the kitchen making dinner and I’ll be ready to ask him something before I remember he’s not around anymore. And I miss—” Jesus. Was I really going to say this?

  I averted my eyes. Kayakers made their way down the Semois. I wished I could join them, flow on the current of the river until there was nothing but me, the water, and the hills.

  “What?” Thomas asked me gently. “What do you miss?” He drew me to a halt in front of an alcove between two old, tall houses. They were stately, huge, bricked sentinels, standing watch over the decades coming and going. A chocolatier to the right made the place smell like heaven.

  I didn’t say anything, but the way I hugged myself must’ve given me away.

  “Oh, Ollie,” Thomas whispered. He reached for me, but I stepped back. I didn’t even know why, really. A hug would have been better than the best piece of chocolate from next door, but something stopped me.

  “I’m okay,” I said. His expression shuttered, and I was sorry for it. I squeezed his arm. “You’re a great friend, Thomas. It means a lot that you’re here.”

  “Of course.” He smiled at me. “Always.”

  We continued on our way in a not exactly comfortable, but easy enough silence.

  “There.” I pointed toward the end of the road. “That looks like a little outdoor market.”

  “Let’s check it out.”

  We wandered the market stalls as the day wound down. The fresh produce was nearly gone, but it was nice to walk through stands and inhale the relaxed atmosphere, so different from Antwerp’s beehive madness. On the way back, we stopped in a little grocery store and got some more essentials. By the time we made it to the apartment, I deeply regretted not taking the car. The sharp plastic handles of the shopping bags dug into my palms, and I was pretty out of breath when we reached the third floor.

  “Next time Imran and Cleo can do the shopping,” I said, and Thomas laughed.

  “Speaking of, where are they?”