by Indra Vaughn
“See you next week,” he murmured, and he was gone. My phone buzzed.
You’re going home with this guy after the first date? Jesus, Ollie. Be careful.
Like I thought, no squeeing from Thomas. I spotted my tram across the street and hurried over to catch it, getting soaked regardless. I didn’t try to think about too much on my way home, and after a hot shower, I fell into bed.
I liked Peter. I didn’t want to. But I did, and the thought stabbed me with fresh grief. I was betraying Sam just by thinking like this. The realization turned my stomach. I rolled over and hugged a pillow tight to my chest. Squeezing my eyes closed, I willed sleep to come so I could stop thinking entirely.
Around midnight I was still awake, and my phone buzzed again.
You still good?
I squinted at the sharp light until my eyes adjusted somewhat. It touched me that Thomas was checking in. I felt like a total tool for not telling him I’d changed my mind.
Am home. Didn’t go with him.
A second later my phone rang. “Hello?” I croaked.
“You okay?” Thomas sounded a lot more awake than I did.
“Yeah, man. I’m sorry I forgot to text you back. I was telling him about Sam and we were going to go to his place to talk about it, but I changed my mind. He was fine with it. He’s nice.”
Silence. Then, “You like him?”
My chest hurt. “Maybe. I don’t know . . .”
“What?”
“If I’m ready.”
“It’s okay if you’re not, Ollie. But at least you tried. And next time it’ll be a little bit easier. There’s no time stamp on this, you know? You can make your own decisions about when you’re up for dating.” I wanted to tell him I knew all that, but it was nice to hear. “No one else can tell you what to do. I think . . . I think you’re doing great, actually. You’ve been so strong.” My eyes began to droop. Thomas had a nice voice. Deep and soft. I could fall asleep listening to him talk.
“Hmm.”
“Ollie?”
I woke up a little bit. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad you didn’t go home with him.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. “Thanks for checking in, Thomas.”
“Of course, man. Anytime.”
“Night, Tommy.”
Another silence, then very softly, “Night Oliver.”
I fell asleep.
That week it seemed like someone was screwing with time. The hours at work flew by like a blur, while the minutes at home ticked one painful second at a time. Cleo called, as did my mom, and I talked to them but I didn’t want to see anyone.
I contacted Sam’s old lawyer during a slow hour at work to make an appointment about the house. My stomach contracted when he sounded far less optimistic than I thought he would. His caution made me realize I’d been assuming the will would hold up and I wouldn’t really have to deal with any of this. Sam used to handle these unpleasant things. I’d done more than just rely on him.
In the evenings I drifted around the house, trying to imagine fitting all our things into a different place, and the idea was so wrong it made me nauseous.
The only time I felt somewhat normal was when I was texting with Peter, and that in itself became an unwelcome response. I wasn’t ready for this. Every butterfly that fluttered to the surface when his name popped up on my phone gave me heartburn, and I squashed it down.
But I couldn’t deny it. My entire week consisted of tunnel vision toward Saturday. I wanted to see him again and I didn’t. I wanted to know I was wanted, and at the same time I didn’t want to need anyone ever again. I was scared to death, but deep inside me a flicker of excitement couldn’t be buried. It was like a tiny flame, and every sweet text from Peter fanned it until I didn’t have the heart to starve it of oxygen.
I bought another outfit on Saturday and made sure I wasn’t half an hour early this time. He was already there when I walked in. His smile lit the room when he noticed me. He rose to his feet and strode up to me easy as breathing. Like we’d done it our entire lives, he pecked me on the lips. Just like that. Realization swiftly dawned, and he clasped a hand over his mouth.
“Shit,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I did that. It felt so natural. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I said as I took off my coat, even though a shiver ran up my spine. “Go with the flow.”
He smiled down at me, and his right cheek dimpled. “You look really handsome.”
“Thanks.” My face flushed, and I fidgeted with my coat. “So do you.”
He held my chair out for me, and I squirmed, half-uneasy, half-pleased. We talked all evening. It held none of the awkwardness from last time. When he kissed me good-bye, I lingered a moment, breathed him in, and discovered that I liked the generic soap on him. Just his skin and a generic scent and it didn’t put me off at all, even if I sent a quick apology to Sam.
We made plans. I saw him again a week later on a crisp winter day. We walked through an empty, sleepy zoo. He held me tight when he kissed me good-bye, and I opened up and let him in.
I saw him again the Saturday after that. This time I texted Cleo to let her know I was going home with him. I didn’t know why I chose her rather than Thomas, but she refrained from sending me a hundred replies, which was a win as far as I was concerned.
Peter’s house was nice. He was really sweet. His pets seemed old and weren’t very interested in meeting me, apart from a large tabby cat with one ear missing. He had to lock her up in the kitchen because she wouldn’t stop rubbing herself all over me.
We kissed on the couch, and I liked it. We kissed on the way to the bedroom, and I quivered with anticipation. He was lovely and considerate and checked in with me at every stage. When he breached my body and held me close, I craved his touch so much I thought I’d start crying. I didn’t. He murmured softly in my ear the whole time, praising me, making me feel wanted and loved until I shook in his arms. He rocked me to an orgasm that completely blindsided me. I’d forgotten what it felt like, and I thought my heart would burst.
When he was asleep hours later, I slipped out of bed and into his bathroom and cried and cried and cried. I felt terrible about it, but I sneaked into my clothes and left a note on his kitchen table. I crept out of his house like a thief in the early morning.
The first tram would come in half an hour. I sat and saw the sun rise over Antwerp, early tourists making their way into town. I imagined Peter’s sweet face when he woke up and found the bed cold beside him, and cringed with guilt.
Peter,
I had a great time. I really did. I loved spending time with you, and if things were different, I could really have seen this going somewhere. But I’m not ready and I am so sorry for leaving like this.
I hope you can forgive me.
Ollie
He deserved better. I just didn’t have it in me to give it in that moment.
I called Cleo a few hours later. She’d come off a night shift, but had a day shift the next day, so I knew she’d want to stay awake.
“Want to come over for breakfast?” I asked her. “I’ll make eggs Benedict. Bring Imran.” I wasn’t much of a cook, but eggs Benedict were my specialty.
“Dude, I will even get out of my pajamas for that. And Imran’s not home yet, but I’ll let him know to come to your house.” She hung up without another word. After some hesitation, I texted Thomas to come over too.
I knew Cleo would arrive first, so when she tumbled in on a cloud of soft snow, I gave her a hug and burst out, “I slept with him.”
“Oh my God!” She danced up and down on one foot as she tried to extract herself from her boots. “Oh my God, I don’t believe it! How was it? Was he any good? I want all the details. But give me coffee first.”
“Cleo, I am not giving you any details.” I led her into the kitchen, poured coffee, then said, “But it was good. Really good. I cried like a baby while he slept, and sneaked out of his house.”
The wide gri
n fell off her face. “Oh, honey.” She came around the counter and hugged me. “Do you want to see him again?”
I shook my head. “He’s lovely. And maybe in another six months or so it would’ve been better, but I can’t. I’m not ready.” I thought of Peter touching me and then how Sam and I had always made love, and my stomach turned.
“That’s fine.” She patted my hair. “Now you know. And you had sex with someone other than Sam, so you also know it’s not the end of the world.”
“You’re right. I feel bad about how I left it with him, though.”
The doorbell rang, so I hurried into the hall to let Thomas in. He was wearing a ridiculously fluffy hat with earflaps and somehow still managed to look like a lumberjack rather than a Fraggle.
“Hey.” He gave me a wide, toothy smile as he filled my doorway and pushed his way through. “Thanks for the invite.” He hugged me, and squinted at me. “You look tired. You okay?”
“Ollie slept with Peter and then cried his eyeballs out, but yay progress!”
I groaned. “Seriously, Cleo? I told you that in confidence.”
“We’re all friends here, and Thomas cares about you. Don’t you, Thomas?”
I glanced at him, embarrassed. He was frowning at me, no trace left of that beaming smile. “You slept with him?” he asked.
“Yeah. Last night. It was . . . a one-time thing. I’m not . . . I don’t want to talk about it.”
His jaw flexed. “Did he hurt you?”
“God, no! It was good.” My face went so hot aliens could probably have detected it from outer space. “It’s too soon, okay? Can we leave my sex life alone now, please?” Thomas stood frozen in the hallway, and I took that as acquiescence. “I need to start on the eggs.”
I’d managed to ruin the atmosphere somehow, and felt bad all over again.
“Listen,” Cleo said. “If you feel guilty about leaving him in the middle of the night, text him and apologize. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“You don’t owe him any kind of explanation,” Thomas said mulishly, which surprised me.
“Is that what you do with your one-night stands?” I asked.
His eyes lifted to meet mine. The wounded look in them almost made me flinch back.
Cleo gasped. “That’s not very nice, Oliver.”
“No,” I agreed. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m sorry.”
He shrugged but stared out of the window. “It’s fine. You need to do what seems right to you, obviously. I meant that if you don’t want to text him, you don’t have to. You don’t owe him anything.”
I nodded. While the eggs poached, I pulled my phone out of my pocket. There were two messages from Peter.
You don’t have to reply to this. I understand and I’m sorry. I really liked you and I would’ve wanted to see you again, but you have a grieving process to go through. If I helped in any way, I’m happy.
If you should want to see me again at any point in the future, you know where I am.
“That him?” Cleo asked. I nodded. “Can I see?” I gave her my phone. “Aww.” Her voice sounded thick. “He sounds like a really nice guy. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”
“Me too,” I murmured. Thomas stared at the message but said nothing.
Imran appeared when the eggs were done. He burst through the door in an overtired flurry and kept us all captivated with gruesome tales from his job until Peter was almost forgotten.
I caught Thomas watching me every once in a while, and his concern touched me. I smiled at him, and after a second he returned it softly, if a little sadly. Before I could dissect the meaning behind it, Cleo said, “Don’t forget! Christmas party next week! Where is your tree, Ollie?”
“I was going to set it up today.”
“We’ll help!” she declared. Imran and Thomas groaned but lumbered to their feet.
“Good breakfast, my friend,” Imran said as he passed me and followed Cleo into the basement, where I kept my fake tree and all the ornaments. I’d buy a real one next week for the office at the front of the house, but I liked the huge fake one in the living room.
“I’ll help you do the dishes,” Thomas said, and he did, in a mostly companionable silence.
Stan Doorn, the lawyer who’d processed the transfer of the house into Sam’s name when his grandmother died, looked very grave when I went to see him early on the twenty-third. He shook my hand and ushered me into his quiet office. I sat down in a creaky leather chair and tried to get my thumping heart under control.
“How are you doing, Oliver?” he asked. I’d seen him at the funeral and briefly afterward to go over Sam’s will. He always struck me as a severe but kind man.
“I’m doing okay,” I said, and he nodded slowly.
“I’ve read through Sam’s as well as his grandmother’s will. I’m going to tell you straight away, it would’ve been better if Sam’s will had been put together by me or another lawyer, instead of doing it himself.” He pressed his lips together and gazed at me thoughtfully for a second. “I can imagine he hadn’t considered he’d really need it this soon.”
My throat began to burn, and I nodded again. “So they can fight it?” I asked.
“They can,” Stan said. “And they will. If it will do them any good, I have no idea. But it will be a painful process. They can fight it in two ways.” He held up a thick finger. “Either they contest the authenticity of it—” he paused for a second, held up another finger as he peered at me over his reading glasses “—or they contest his mental health at the time he wrote the will.”
I made an outraged noise. “They’ll lose on both counts,” I said.
“Maybe. Maybe not. It will all depend on the judge. The house had been in their family for a very long time, you weren’t married yet, and some judges aren’t all that positive toward same-sex relationships even in this day and age.” I opened my mouth to complain again, but he held up his hand. “What it comes down to is this: they can fight it and they will. Whether they win or not becomes almost an afterthought. What you need to decide is how willing you are to drag this out. It will cost a lot of time, emotional commitment, and money, no matter what happens. And at the end of it you might still lose. Is the house worth it? Because if not, I can negotiate a deal where you get fifty percent of the proceeds. Maybe more because you are willing to work with them.”
Anger burned through my veins. The house was ours. Sam had wanted me to have it. All his parents wanted it for was money. They didn’t care about the memories that haunted every single room like docile, friendly ghosts. I couldn’t reconcile any of this with the people I’d known and loved my whole life. Especially Simon, who was fast becoming a stranger, after I’d seen him as a second father for so long.
Stan was watching me intently. “I’ll think about it,” I told him wearily.
“You can take your time. Nothing is going to happen during the holidays, so there is no rush.” He pursed his lips, then went on. “Another option is that you offer to buy them out.”
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
“You could get a loan if you wanted. Again, it all depends on how badly you want the house.”
“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I repeated, and rose to my feet. I shook his hand and left, mind reeling. I had a lot to go over, and I decided to let it all percolate as I shopped for presents.
It turned out to be impossible to find something suitable for Thomas. I’d toyed with the idea of giving him a book, but how terribly impersonal would that be? Especially since I had no clue what he liked to read. I trailed the menswear shops and went through colognes, picked up and discarded art prints, moved on to a winery and almost bought a bottle of wine, only to remember we’d be drinking copious amounts of alcohol all night so what would be the point of that?
It was nearly three o’clock on the twenty-third and everyone would be arriving at my doorstep in four hours. I still had to clean the house, shower, and start the cooking. Everyone would brin
g a dish or two, but the ham was my responsibility.
In near desperation, I almost picked up a dumb set of whiskey stones, even though I’d never seen Thomas drink whiskey. My eye fell on a desk protector. It was a large world map. I remembered a late evening—or early morning—one of the few where Thomas hadn’t pulled a one-night stand and we’d all ended up in Sam’s and my living room. Sobering up but drunk on tiredness, Thomas had been sitting next to me. His head had lolled onto my shoulder, and in a soft voice he’d confessed he’d always wanted to travel, but he never seemed to find anyone he wanted to travel with. Or the ones he did, didn’t want to travel with him.
At the time it’d seemed like nothing, but now it felt like a terribly intimate confession. I picked up the map. It didn’t look like much, and I almost put it down again before I noticed it came with a little tool. The idea was to scratch off a brown layer for each country visited, to reveal a colorful world beneath.
It was perfect.
I had it wrapped up and hurried home so I could get on with the rest of my day. At six thirty I shoved the ham in the oven and rushed upstairs to shower, sending a group text saying the door was open and to let themselves in, in case I wasn’t down yet.
I dressed with care but for comfort. I thought about applying some of Sam’s products to my hair, but remembered that had never worked before. Though I’d had my hair cut, it still wouldn’t work now.
“First Christmas without you, Sam,” I said. I pulled a T-shirt from his drawer, but it smelled only of me now. “I guess I should start packing these up, huh?”
There was no reply. I listened in the stairwell for a second but heard no movement downstairs. I was still alone. In a moment’s indecision, I stared at the steps that would lead me to the attic. It felt good. Right. I climbed up.
Somewhere below me, a door opened. “Only me!”
I opened the door to Sam’s art room, calling back, “Up here, Thomas.”
I walked inside and stood in the familiar room. I hadn’t been up here in so long. Dust motes drifted in the last of the December light.
“Ollie? Oh.”