Patchwork Paradise

by Indra Vaughn

  Maybe I should call Peter.

  I didn’t call Peter, but things almost did return to normal. We found a new bar to hang out in on Saturday nights, and we met up every week. I didn’t dance on tables anymore like Cleo still did, but I did learn a new appreciation for how Thomas must’ve felt being surrounded by two deliriously happy couples all those years. His urge to sleep around suddenly made a lot of sense.

  And yet, I didn’t. I got propositioned a few times, but I always demurred. It didn’t escape my notice that Thomas tensed whenever I did give in to some harmless flirting, but I wasn’t bigheaded enough to think he was jealous. He cared, that was all.

  At least this business with Stephen always being there did answer one question: I loved Thomas. There was nothing I could do about it, so I didn’t, but there it was.

  I went through life with a semblance of, if not happiness, at least contentment. It was more than what I thought I’d ever have a year ago, and I could live with it. Work was going well. I was healthy. I considered adopting a dog, but maybe I’d go on holiday somewhere first. I could take my entire six weeks again and plan that trip to Texas. Or maybe not just Texas, but see some of the USA. Because why not? I had no one to think of but myself. I made tentative plans, bought a Lonely Planet guide on the States, dog-eared the pages of places I wanted to see, and carried on with my life.

  One Thursday morning I received a call from Stan, asking if I could come and see him as soon as possible. I made an appointment for the same day after work and left early once I became too nervous to sit around any longer.

  He ushered me into his office as soon as I arrived. “How set on keeping the house are you?” he asked me bluntly.

  I didn’t even hesitate. “It’s mine,” I said. “It was ours. Sam wanted me to have it. It’s my home. I don’t want to leave.” Panic squeezed my insides when I realized the reality of the situation was I seriously could lose it. I needed the house. I felt like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to earth.

  He pursed his lips. “In that case, we have a proposal, and I strongly urge you to take it. If you refuse, they’ll be taking it to court, and the assigned judge—” he sucked air in through his teeth “—let’s just say you’ll want to avoid him at all costs.”

  “What’s the proposal?” I asked, mouth dry.

  “My guess is they’re having money troubles. They want you to buy them out. You pay them half of what the house is worth and it’s all yours. I think I can reduce that to forty-five, maybe forty percent, because they’re desperate and that works in our favor. However, if they’re desperate enough and we push them too hard, they’ll want to go the whole way. They’ll know the judge is likely to rule in their favor. The only reason they’re doing this is because this whole thing is becoming too expensive and they need money now.”

  I’d never had to pay a mortgage before, and an old house like that was a money suck regardless. Heating bills, repairs, it all fell to me now. If I had to pay off even half of a huge place like that, it’d break my bank account. And the thought of having to pay because Sam’s dad was an asshole—pay for something that was rightfully mine—made me see red. “I can’t believe they can do this.”

  “I know. And if we had any other judge, I’d say fight them to the end. With this one . . . it’s a huge risk to take.”

  “I don’t know if I can get a mortgage for even half the house.”

  Stan nodded. “Think about it, contact some banks about loans, but don’t wait too long. I need an answer soon so I can plan a strategy.” He put his palms flat on the desk and leaned a little closer. “If you want to fight this, I’ll go there with you. But in the end all that matters is that you get what you want. And paying a mortgage might be the only way to do it.”

  I left his office in a daze, wondering, not for the first time, if this was all worth it. After all, it was just a house, no matter how much of a relief it sometimes was to pull that door closed behind me and shut out the world. I could feel the same about any other house. Couldn’t I?

  For a while I did nothing but wallow in indecision. More than anything, I wanted to talk to Thomas about this, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him. I only saw him when everyone else was around, and I kept quiet about my troubles.

  And then Thomas and Stephen broke up and things turned really awkward. It almost seemed like he was mad at me. He didn’t come to our Saturday outing for two weeks in a row. Cleo said he almost never answered his phone anymore, and when I called him, all I got was voice mail, like I’d been blocked.

  So I drove out there again, on a sunny summer day at the very end of July.

  Thomas’s car was parked in front of his door, so I knew he was home, but as I rang and rang the doorbell, no one answered.

  I opened his letter box and peered through it. On the floor was a stack of mail that was days, if not weeks old. A chill of fear raced down my spine. Oh God, no.

  “Thomas?” I yelled. “Thomas, it’s me, Ollie! If you’re in there, please come and open the door. Thomas!” Nothing. I dithered on the doorstep for a second, then opened the letter box again. “Thomas? I’m going to call an ambulance, okay? If you’re hurt and you can hear me, help is coming!”

  I heard a noise, a bang. A door creaked and then footsteps stumbled down the stairs. I saw something move, and the door snapped open so hard I nearly ripped the lip of the letter box off. I straightened and gasped. “Oh my God, what happened?”

  His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He looked sick, his pupils tiny. He was wrapped in a bathrobe, and even from where I stood on the doorstep, I could smell the body odor on him. Body odor and liquor.

  “Are you hungover?”

  “What do you want, Oliver?”

  I gaped at him. He hadn’t shaved in goodness knew how long. “What do I want? We’re fucking worried about you! Your dad called Cleo, Thomas. Your dad! And here you are getting your fucking drink on? Now you’re asking me what I want? I thought you were hurt. I thought you were dead, you asshole!”

  His gaze softened for a moment, in a way that was so familiar, so dear to me now. The corners of his eyes went up a little, crinkled at the edges with his laugh lines. His sooty lashes lifted and cast shadows on his sharp cheekbones. And just like that the softness was gone. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So you can call everyone and tell them to leave me alone.”

  He was about to slam the door in my face, and I stopped it with my palm, which was a bad idea. It jarred my wrist something fierce, but I was too angry to care.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. I’m coming in and I am shoving you in the shower. You stink. I’m going to pour away all your liquor and make you breakfast. You’re going to call your dad and apologize in person. You think he hasn’t been worried sick? I expected better from you, Thomas.”

  He hung his head, and instantly I felt like a total dick. I took his arm. The bathrobe was ridiculously fluffy, like a warm hug, but oh God, the smell. “Come on,” I told him gently. “Into the shower with you.”

  And he came with me, meek as a lamb. I glanced into the small living room to the right of his ridiculously steep stairway and saw nothing but darkness and vague shapes of messiness. Up the steps we went, into his only bathroom, where dirty laundry had been left lying on the floor. I turned on the shower to heat, set him down on the closed toilet lid, squirted some toothpaste on his toothbrush and handed it over. Without a word, he accepted it and began to brush. I lifted his feet and took off his socks. He didn’t look at me, barely seemed to notice I was there, and again my stomach lurched with worry. Was he on something? Was he drugged up?

  “Come on, spit in the sink and rinse your mouth.”

  He was so far gone, I didn’t trust him not to step into the shower with his robe on. So I took it off him and managed valiantly to keep my eyes above nipple level.

  “Don’t forget to wash your hair,” I told him, and handed him a loofah and his bottle of bodywash. He met my eyes for a second. He tried to smile at me, but his
mouth quivered. “You’ll be okay,” I said. “It hurts now, I know. But it will be okay.” He nodded and put some soap on his loofah, so I was confident he could take it from there.

  I stepped out of the bathroom and fished my phone out of my pocket. “Cleo?” I said when she answered. I went into his bedroom, held my breath until I could yank open the curtains and the windows, then looked around, stunned. “I’m at Thomas’s.”

  “Oh my God, is he okay?”

  “I honestly don’t know. He’s definitely hungover, maybe still drunk, but he’s acting weird. I’m scared he might’ve taken drugs or something.”

  “Weird how?” she asked, all businesslike, and I knew she’d snapped into nurse mode. “Is he shaking? Convulsing? Vomiting or losing consciousness?”

  “What? No! He’s taking a shower right now. But he’s really spaced out. And his pupils were tiny. First he was really mad at me, and a little later he was all agreeable and quiet.”

  Silence, then she softly said, “He probably didn’t do drugs. He’s probably sad, Ollie. Because what you’re telling me is exactly what you were like when Sam first died.”

  “But nobody died,” I said stupidly. I remembered what I had just said to Thomas: “It hurts now, I know. But it will be okay.” Some part of me had recognized his grief for what it was, even if I hadn’t consciously realized it.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t just lose someone.”

  “Okay,” I said. “If there are no drugs involved, I can deal with it.” The shower turned off, and I began my hunt for clean clothes—easier said than done. His suits and shirts were strewn all over the place, so at least I had hope he’d been going to work and wasn’t out of a job. Yet.

  “Do you need me to come over?” Cleo asked.

  “Not now. Maybe later. I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. And Ollie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Take care of him, all right? He’s hurting and he’ll be vulnerable.”

  “Yeah, sure, of course.”

  I hung up, found a clean pair of boxers, some sweatpants, and a T-shirt. Not knowing what I’d find there, I turned back to the bathroom.

  Thomas was staring at himself in the mirror. His towel hung off a pair of narrow hips, bones jutting out sharply on either side of a lovely six-pack. He’d lost some weight—not drastically so, but enough to make his muscles stand out even more. His reflection met my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant for you to see me like this.”

  “I think you’ve seen me worse,” I said, holding out the clothes. He took them but didn’t put them on. I really wanted him to cover up because any second now my gaze was going to drift again, and he’d catch it.

  “Yes, but you lost someone.”

  I thought of what Cleo had said. “So did you. Come on.” I picked the T-shirt off the pile and pulled it over his head. His face was very close when he emerged.

  “Not in the way you think,” he murmured and turned away to stick his arms through the sleeves. When he picked up the boxers, I spun around and left the bathroom.

  His small living room was in a right state. He might not’ve done hard drugs, but he’d done everything else under the sun. Tequila, wine, beer, vodka. I didn’t gather a single whiskey bottle, so at least I’d been right not to buy those whiskey blocks.

  He came downstairs as I was pouring the last of it down the drain—not that there’d been much left to drain away.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, his cheeks flushed with what must’ve been embarrassment. “You’ve done more than enough for me already.”

  I set the bottle of tequila next to the other empties, took his hands in mine, and really looked at him. “If it weren’t for the people taking care of me day in, day out after Sam died, I wouldn’t be here, Thomas. Let me give something back, okay? You’re hurting. I want to be here for you.”

  His bottom lip quivered, and he broke our eye contact. I let him. “I made coffee. Want some?”

  He sat down at his small, round, wooden kitchen table and nodded. I found mugs and sugar, but no milk since it’d gone bad. In fact, his fridge was pathetically bare. I’d have to go back on that breakfast I’d promised.

  I left him alone with his thoughts for a bit, opened the curtains in the living room, tidied up the throws and pillows and laundry that had been left there too, and made my way upstairs, where I gathered more laundry and put in a load. I stripped his bed, then realized I didn’t want to invade his privacy any more than I already had and left it at that. I’d help him remake the bed later, if he wanted me to.

  He had his head down on the table when I came back to the kitchen, and I ran my fingers through his hair. He’d kept it short, and I mourned a little bit. I’d never gotten to tug his long hair, and I found I wanted to. So I massaged his scalp instead, his hair damp and soft under my fingers, and he let out a helpless noise.

  “Feels good,” he mumbled, rolling his forehead back and forth on his arms.

  I crouched down beside him and kept carding my fingers through his hair. “One of the worst things after Sam died,” I said, “was being absolutely touch-starved. It was like going cold turkey off the best drug. I’d always had him there beside me, and I’d never had to do without someone to hold me. In my darkest hours, I thought it’d kill me.”

  He lifted his head, and I let my hand fall away, smoothing it over his nape, down his muscular back. “What did you do?”

  I smiled ruefully. “I hugged his pillow.”

  “Oh, Ollie,” he whispered. “I didn’t know. I would’ve hugged the crap out of you.”

  That made me laugh. “I know,” I said. “And it’s okay. It got better. It will get better for you too.”

  “I don’t think so,” he whispered, and I frowned at him.

  “Why not?”

  Thomas kept his eyes on the table, and he traced his fingers along a wooden vein, back and forth. “He left because he said I still love you, Ollie. He said he couldn’t be with someone and not come first. Even when I’m trying to be over you, I can’t be. I don’t think I ever will be.”

  No point in lying. My heart sprang to life and began to beat at a canter, but I tried not to let it show. Like Cleo said, he was vulnerable and hurting.

  I put my hand on the back of his neck and pulled lightly. He came to me like it was instinct. Just sank onto the ground until I sat back on my heels and held his entire weight against me. I’d never seen anyone so broken-down before. I wondered if he’d regret letting me see him this way later on. This strong, beautiful man on his knees with me. It was hard to comprehend.

  “It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s all going to be fine. You’ll see.” It was a promise. And I intended to keep it.

  I could feel when he began to tense a little later, embarrassment settling in. His shoulders curled away from me first, and he wouldn’t look at me, so I ignored the awkwardness, rose to my feet, and pulled him up.

  “I’m starving,” I said. “Do you think we can go grab some sandwiches at Bruno’s and go eat them in the park?” He still wouldn’t look at me, but I didn’t mind.

  “Yeah, that sounds good.”

  I didn’t ask him again if he was okay. I chattered about everything and nothing, from Cleo and Imran being good together again to shenanigans at work, to the point that I forgot I was trying to distract him and told him of my plans of taking some time off and going to the US. We were sitting on the same bench as last time, with the view of the castle and the iron suspension bridge below.

  His head snapped up. “You’re leaving?”

  “What? No, not really. It was, you know, a vague dream.” One that wouldn’t happen if I had to pay for the house. I didn’t tell him about that.

  “But you’ve been planning it.”

  “Somewhat.” I sighed and put my baguette on the paper bag in my lap. “Imran and Cleo were working things out, and you and Stephen were so happy. I felt like a fifth wheel. I wanted to do
something for myself.”

  He raised a sardonic eyebrow. “I know how that feels.”

  “Yeah, I can see that now. Shame you already took all that time off work. We could’ve gone to the US together.”

  His eyes narrowed, and his dark gaze penetrated me. I felt my face go pink and returned my attention to the baguette. It should’ve been very tasty, but I wouldn’t have noticed if it were filled with tofu.

  “You and me,” he slowly said. “On vacation together.”

  I tried to shrug nonchalantly. “Sure. Why not?” Pretending to bask in the sweet sunshine, I tried not to let his scrutiny thrill me.

  “Yeah,” he said after a while. “That would’ve been nice. So you still going?”

  “Maybe at some point, but not right now.”

  “Why not?”

  I realized, money issues aside, I still didn’t want to go. Not alone anyway. “Because you broke up with Stephen. I want to be here for you.” I lowered my voice. “With you.”

  He stared at me. His mouth turned up at the corners in a shy smile. He dropped his gaze to the barely touched sandwich in his hands. “Shit, Ollie.” So much for returning us to normalcy. His smile fell away. “I wish you hadn’t seen me like that this morning. I feel bad about that.”

  I gripped my sandwich tightly because if I hugged him now, I didn’t think I’d want to stop there. “You’ve seen me cry, haven’t you?” I asked quietly. “You’ve seen me at my lowest. Do you think less of me?”

  He stared at me, wide-eyed, and set his lunch aside so he could slip a hand around the back of my neck. “God, Oliver, of course not. I could never. You’re the strongest person I know.”

  “Then why would I think less of you? You’re human. It was a very human reaction. I’m sorry you were alone for as long as you’ve been. I wish I’d come sooner, before you drank all that booze. I wish I’d been there for you. But I’m here now. I want to be here now.”