by Indra Vaughn
Thomas appeared in the doorway, looking windswept and handsome. His hair was pulled back in a bun low on his neck. His eyelashes were so dark, it looked like he was wearing eyeliner.
“Hey,” I said.
He took a careful step closer. “What’s this?”
“It was supposed to be Sam’s wedding present for me.”
“Oh, Ollie.” Thomas squeezed my shoulder. “Have you never looked at it?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to go?”
I thought about that for a moment. The ache in my chest wasn’t suffocating me. In a way it felt sweet. “No,” I said. “I’d like you to stay, if you want.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
I walked to the easel and gently pulled the sheet off the canvas. Because I was so close to it, I didn’t immediately register what it was, but Thomas did.
“Oh my God!”
Alarmed, I looked at him. He had his hands in his hair. His eyes flicked from me to the painting, and back to my . . . groin? He spun on his heel and faced the other direction. I took three steps back and echoed his words weakly.
“Oh my God.”
Sam had painted us in the middle of having sex. I was on my knees, facing the viewer, arms stretched back to hold on to Sam, who was fucking me from behind. I had an erection that would’ve held a flag up. I surrender.
It was stunning, but, “Fuck.”
I began to laugh and glanced over my shoulder. Thomas risked a look too. When he saw I wasn’t upset, he gingerly turned around again.
“Damn, Ollie. Is that thing true to size?”
“Oh my God.” I laughed harder, and Thomas sniggered along.
“That’s an amazing painting. It really is. But maybe you should leave it up here.”
“Yeah, that might not—”
“Hi! We’re here!”
We stared at each other, wide-eyed, swore at the same time, and scrambled over to the painting. We fumbled with the sheet, giggling like naughty schoolboys, and covered it up before stumbling out of the room and down the stairs.
“What are you guys up to?” Cleo asked.
“If you drank all the champagne already, I’m going to be pissed,” Imran said.
Thomas and I looked at each other, started laughing again, and didn’t stop until Cleo began to get mad for not being included in the joke.
“It’s nothing,” I said. “We’re being silly.”
“Yeah,” Thomas said. “Nothing’s up, Cleo.” He caught my eye, and that set us off again.
“Fine, don’t tell me.” She stomped to the fridge and put the dessert away.
I tried to feel bad but couldn’t. I didn’t know what it would’ve been like discovering that painting by myself, but it had been okay with Thomas there. Mildly embarrassing, but surprisingly okay.
We drank and then we ate and then we drank some more after we exchanged our secret Santas. The gifts themselves were rarely anything special, but it was a fun tradition that brought a touch of normalcy when Sam’s glaring absence threatened to overwhelm the evening. Thomas stared at his map for a long time before he gave me a strangely solemn thank-you. I thought I’d made a mistake buying it, but throughout the whole evening he kept touching it, tracing lines all over the countries.
Cleo had brought a huge chocolate and vanilla ice cream log topped with pistachio nuts, and even though I’d eaten so much already that I had to pop the button on my pants, I ate two helpings of that too.
Sometime after midnight, we retreated to the living room and sprawled all over the sectional. I turned on the TV but left it on mute. Imran raised his glass unsteadily and said, “To Sam. We still miss him, and we always will.” The house seemed to breathe in agreement, warm and fragrant with Christmas scents. I thought of all the holidays I’d spent with Sam wrapped around me and how happy we’d been here.
“To Sam,” we echoed and drank. I remembered the painting upstairs and the urge to giggle bubbled up my throat. I felt Thomas’s eyes on me, but when I looked at him, he was staring at the flashing TV screen. He did have a small smirk on his face though.
“By the way, is it okay if we crash here?” Cleo asked. Her head lolled to the side, and she blinked at me blearily. “I really don’t want to call a cab right now.”
“Sure,” I said. “Like I said, you can all crash if you want to. You should stay too, Thomas. I have at least two spare bedrooms made up, so take your pick.”
He sank down on his side of the sectional a little more, and his feet ended up in Imran’s lap. “I think I might stay here,” he said. “This couch is comfortable.”
I knew that. I’d slept here plenty of times with Sam, sometimes because we’d been exhausted and had fallen asleep before we could drag ourselves upstairs, and sometimes because . . . well. It was a comfortable couch.
A flicker of awareness passed between Imran and Cleo. I didn’t immediately understand what it was, but suddenly he dumped Thomas’s feet off of his lap, stood, and dragged her up.
“Night, boys,” she told us, blowing us each a kiss.
Thomas mumbled something incoherently and snuggled deeper into the couch. I watched them, tracked their footsteps, and oh God, they picked the bedroom right above our heads.
“Um,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re going to want to sleep here.”
“What?” Thomas’s eyelids were already half-closed, and he blinked sleepily. I flopped to the side a little more so I landed near his head.
“They’re going to—” And yep, there it was. Creaking bedsprings.
“Fuck no!” Thomas gave a disbelieving guffaw and grabbed a pillow and stuffed his head underneath it. I did the same. I lay so our faces were close, our feet at opposite ends of the sectional. “It’s okay,” he whispered loudly. “He doesn’t last long when he’s drunk.”
I peeked from behind my cushion. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Remember when they were, uh, on a break?” When Thomas had slept with Cleo, in other words. “Well, after that we talked. The three of us. To see if we could work things out and remain friends. We all got drunk and Imran and Cleo started to do it right there on my couch! I escaped to my bed. He didn’t last long, thank goodness.”
I sobered up a little. “When was this?”
“Not long after the trip to Bouillon.” Thomas flattened his hand on the couch. His fingertips nearly touched the heel of my hand. “We didn’t want to bother you, Ollie, so don’t feel left out. And I think it’s something we needed to work out ourselves. It nearly ruined our friendship, and we kind of realized we couldn’t do that to you.”
“Hey,” I said, sitting up. I reached for a half-empty bottle of champagne, took a lukewarm swig, and passed it to Thomas. “I don’t want your pity. Any of you. If you didn’t get along anymore, I could still be friends with you separately.” I wasn’t sure why it rubbed me the wrong way that they’d gotten together and decided they had to work this out for my sake, but it did. Even if the thought of our friendships shattering gave me hives, I wasn’t the child of a divorcing couple, for God’s sake. We drained the bottle while we tried to ignore the squeaking above us.
“Would you though?” He sat up too, and for the first time since I’d known him, this brick of a man looked small. “Would you stay friends or would we have . . . gone our own ways?”
“Of course I’d have stayed friends with you,” I said, confused. I opened my mouth to say something else, but a loud groan erupted above us and we dove back under our pillows. “We could sneak up to the top floor,” I whispered. “We won’t hear them there.”
“But the painting,” Thomas said. He lifted my shield a little, and we were staring at each other in the semidarkness of our sanctuary. He laughed softly, and his breath whuffed against my face. I felt sleepy and comfortable. His eyes were dark pools of safety I could lose myself in.
“You’ve seen me naked now.” An embarrassing drunken giggle escaped me, and I covered my mouth. Thomas lifted his finger and traced the back of
my hand.
“And it was glorious,” he said. I laughed. My hand fell away. His eyes locked on to mine. I didn’t know who reached for whom, but our mouths came together, warm and comfortable and a little off-center. My bottom lip stuck between his. I felt the moist press of his tongue. He laughed again, even as his eyes drooped, and then I was asleep.
I woke up with a pounding headache and with breath that could’ve come straight from the mouths of Cerberus. I groaned and stretched as I tried to peel my eyelids open. Sunlight spilled through the half-drawn curtains, but it was murky so I figured it was still pretty early. Someone had put a blanket over me. The couch beside me was empty. Had Thomas gone up to bed after all?
A small noise made me sit up. He was standing in the doorway, freshly showered and newly dressed. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said. “You can go back to sleep. It’s early.”
I frowned at him, pushed the bird’s nest out of my eyes, and stood on wobbly legs. “What about you?”
“I’m . . .” I realized he wasn’t looking at me. “I need to go.”
“Thomas?” His eyes flicked to mine and away again. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He finally looked at me, and there was . . . guilt? What the hell? “Go back to sleep, Ollie. I made coffee. It’s brewing now. It’ll still be fresh when you wake up again. I’ll—I’ll text you.” And then he was gone.
Stunned, I sat in my living room for a while until I realized I really needed to pee, and trudged up to my bathroom. Creeping by Cleo and Imran’s room, I was relieved to hear nothing but snores.
My hair was an absolute mess. I had pillow lines in the shape of a flower on my face. I brushed my teeth and stared at my reflection, tried to imagine Sam standing behind me, and couldn’t. I spit in the sink, wiped my mouth, and thought, Oh.
Thomas and I had kissed. Last night. I met my own eyes in the mirror and attempted to work out how I felt about that. Mostly confused about Thomas’s reaction, because that was why he’d run off. It’d been a harmless kiss. And I’d liked it. But he obviously . . . hadn’t.
I told Cleo about it while Imran showered. The longer I talked, the tighter her mouth pulled into a thin line.
“If Imran were here right now, he’d tell me it wasn’t any of my business, but Jesus, Oliver. Je-sus.”
Mind boggled, I sat back in my kitchen chair. “What?”
She blew out a breath that puffed up her cheeks, closed her eyes, and pinched her nose. All I had to do was wait, because I knew her, and I knew she’d talk eventually. Her eyes flew open. She grabbed my hands and gave them a rough shake.
“I love you,” she said. “You know I do.”
“Of course. I l—”
“But you can be remarkably dumb, Ollie. Remarkably dumb.”
“What? Cleo!”
Her jaw flexed, and she squeezed my hands. “Be quiet, because I’m going to make a big mistake and my conscience is about to take over. Thomas has been in love with you from the minute you brought him to that first dinner almost four years ago. He thought you two were going on a date, you asshole. And instead he walked in to see you canoodling with Sam. Who was, by the way, as perfect a specimen of manhood as I’ve ever seen. You broke Thomas’s heart.”
“Cleo . . .” I laughed, but my stomach twisted. “That’s not true. It can’t be.”
“We all knew, Ollie! Even Sam knew! You were the only one too dumb to see it.”
“Cleo!” She jumped guiltily in her chair, and Imran strode in, eyes dark with anger. “That wasn’t your secret to tell. I don’t believe you.”
“They kissed,” she snapped. “And as usual Ollie has no idea why Thomas might be upset.” She turned back to me. I’d never seen her this annoyed. “You know all those people he keeps sleeping with? It’s because he knows he’s not going to fall in love with anyone else.”
“Cleo, that’s enough!” Imran yelled. “Just because you’re in love with him—”
“I’m not!” She sprang to her feet and balled her tiny fists on her thighs. “But you’re never going to believe me, are you? You’re never going to forgive me!”
She stormed into the living room, and I got to my feet.
“I’ll go,” Imran said. He didn’t look mad anymore. Just sad. “But you might want to talk to Thomas.”
“So she’s . . . It’s true? All these years?”
Imran shook his head. “She’s right. You are clueless. Yes, Ollie. All these years.”
I sat back down, tried not to listen to Imran and Cleo argue, but it was hard. Their voices rose and then they stilled, and they were quiet for a long time. Eventually I heard my front door fall into its lock. I wondered if there was anything of my circle of friends left. The thought made me want to weep.
I had a bit of a problem with crawling into my shell when things got uncomfortable. I went to see my mom for Christmas, and the days ticked past and no one called. I didn’t call them either. Some distance seemed to be a good idea at the time, but New Year’s Eve happened and still there was no word from anyone. I spent the evening with my mom, worrying about everyone else, and called Sam’s parents at her urging.
I didn’t particularly want to talk to them, and Simon felt the same, apparently.
“How are you doing, Oliver?” Martine asked after an awkward silence when Simon passed the phone on to her without saying a word.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m just calling to see how you are. And to say happy New Year.”
“Oh. Thank you,” Martine said softly. “I’m doing all right. It’s hard, without Sam.”
“It is.” Another tense silence fell.
“Oliver, I . . .” She trailed off, and I wondered if Simon was listening in, keeping her from speaking her mind. I felt sorry for the woman, but it only steeled my resolve. What they were doing was wrong, and I wouldn’t let them get away with it. The house belonged to me now. It was my home, and I wanted to stay here. “Happy New Year,” she eventually said. “I have to go now.”
“Okay, b—” I began, but the line went dead.
The silence from my friends continued to reign. To escape the anxiety that brought me, I wandered Antwerp’s cobbled streets. The ancient buildings leaned protectively over me as I breathed in the atmosphere. I loved imagining the old Antwerp, at the height of the Baroque period, with Peter Paul Rubens, the Treaty of Antwerp, the rise of commerce in the city. I walked the Great Market, watched for a while the fountain depicting Brabo throwing Antigoon’s hand—our own version of David and Goliath—stood in the cathedral’s shade, and wished Sam were here.
I didn’t ache for him like I had. It wasn’t the missing of a vital body part. It was simply the need to talk to someone who understood me as well as I understood him, who wouldn’t judge me for my mistakes, for being oblivious about Thomas’s feelings. I missed being known.
The weekend before I had to go back to work, I got into my car and drove to Thomas’s house. A tiny but quaint home in Bazel, an equally quaint village perched on a riverbed. The Wissekerke Castle grounds were open to the public, and he could see the entry gate from his living room. I liked where he lived. It was so open and free and soothing.
I found his car parked in front of the house. The trunk was open, stuffed to the brim with bags. He came out carrying a suitcase, and my heart just about stopped.
“Thomas,” I breathed. If I’d worn pearls, I’d have been clutching them. He’d cut his hair.
He jerked, startled, and actually took a step back when he saw me. “Ollie? What are you doing here?”
I couldn’t do anything but stare at him. “You . . . you cut your hair.”
The wind tugged it across his forehead, where it had been cut to eyebrow length in a chopped, modern style. It tapered down, leaving his neck pale and bare.
“I—” He brought his hand up self-consciously and ran his fingers through his locks in a way that showed he wasn’t used to the new length yet. It immediately flopped down again. He tried to smile. “I tho
ught it was time for something new.”
His face was clean-shaven and smooth. Handsome.
“Are you . . .” okay, I wanted to ask, but what came out was, “going somewhere?”
“Uh, yeah.” His smile turned real. “I’ve been looking at that map you gave me. And I thought it was time to finally do some of that traveling, you know? I took time off work.”
I swallowed hard. “How long?”
His dark eyes fixed on me, and like a visceral shock, the memory of his mouth on mine came back to me. “Three months.”
“I— Wow. Where are you going?”
“Driving to the south of France to start with. I want to see Italy and take a ferry to Greece. Drive to Turkey, and maybe store my car for a while and hop on a plane to Egypt.”
“That sounds amazing,” I said, but my heart wasn’t in it. “Are you leaving right now?”
He shook his head. “Monday morning. A friend is coming to stay at my house while I’m gone, so I’m putting some stuff in storage.”
“You could’ve stored it at my house. I have enough room.”
Thomas shrugged. “I didn’t want to bother you with it.”
“Right.” I stuffed my hands into my pockets, trying to look like that didn’t sting. “I’m going to miss you. But I hope you have a great time.”
“Thanks.” He put the suitcase in the trunk of his car. “Do you want to take a walk around the castle? It’s a nice enough day.”
“Sure.”
He nodded and locked his front door, then gave me a hesitant smile before we set off through the large stone archway that led to the castle grounds. We walked by the lake, up the hill by a braying donkey in its rolling field, and down between the trees, following the path until we found a lonely bench. In silent agreement, we sat down, looking out at the lake below us.
“Why did you come to see me?” he asked softly.
“I thought maybe we should talk.”
He looked at me steadily, and I found it hard to keep his gaze. “We don’t have to, you know. I understand.”
“Well, that makes one of us,” I said. “Because I have no clue what’s going on. Cleo told me—” I faltered.