Patchwork Paradise

by Indra Vaughn

  He searched my face, dark eyes lifting to mine. Eventually he nodded and drew me into a hug.

  “I’m glad you came,” he softly said. I pressed my nose behind his ear, breathed him in.

  The next few days I spent more time on the phone with banks than doing any actual work, and tried not to get too upset when the first two turned me down flat. I’d been in my job a long time and earned good money, but I was still just a single income, and even forty-five percent of the house’s worth would slap me upside the head with a twenty-five-year mortgage and a monthly payment I could barely afford. Especially since banks had tightened their rules and required borrowers to have a certain amount of money available after payment of the mortgage.

  I kept these money woes to myself, although I didn’t entirely know why. Maybe they embarrassed me, or maybe I needed to feel like I could solve something on my own.

  “So tell me what’s going on between the two of you. I want to know everything.” Cleo was sitting on my backside, using her tiny fists to work a kink out of my shoulders that had been there for five days and wouldn’t budge.

  “Argh,” I mumbled into my couch cushion.

  “Well?”

  “I’ve been on the receiving end of one of your massages, Cleo,” Imran said, “and believe me when I tell you that simultaneously talking and dying is not possible.”

  She squeaked in outrage and dug her knuckles in extra hard.

  “I hate you,” I groaned at Imran. He smirked at me, turned a page of my Lonely Planet book, and pretended to read.

  “Where is he anyway? I haven’t heard from him in days.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said. “Oh my God, Cleo, enough! I’d rather have limited movement in my shoulder than lose it altogether.”

  With a last poke, she jumped off me. “Men,” she sniffed. “Babies, all of you.”

  I groaned in agreement because that was all I could do as I levered myself upright.

  “Yeah, but seriously,” Imran said, putting the book aside. “What happened? Did you guys fight? He didn’t come out again on Saturday.”

  A hot summer wind wafted through the house, billowing my curtains behind the open windows. I tried to remember sitting here like this with Sam, and while I could, it felt distant, like a snapshot rather than a memory. He was fading, and here I was, moping over someone else. I missed the way Sam looked at me. I missed feeling like I meant everything to him. Knowing that no matter how shitty my day was, or how many bad decisions I made, he’d be there at the end of it, saying it would all be okay. He knew me better than I knew myself, but at the same time I couldn’t remember what his laugh sounded like.

  Ah, love.

  Cleo gave me her worried face. “What happened, Ollie?”

  “Just what I told you on the phone. He broke up with Stephen. We had lunch, talked a little bit and then I went home with some vague promise of seeing each other soon.”

  “Did you tell him how you felt?”

  “Jesus, Cleo!” I burst out, just as Imran said, “Of course he didn’t.”

  She gave us an indignant look, and I shifted deeper into the couch, fighting the urge to hide behind a pillow. “What? Why not?”

  “Because he just broke up with someone! I can’t sweep in and go, ‘Oh great, my turn now!’”

  Imran waved his hand at me in a See? Exactly kind of move.

  “Ye-es,” Cleo said, like we were being particularly slow. “But he broke up with a guy he was only with because he thought he couldn’t have you.”

  Suddenly I felt exhausted. I buried my head in my hands. What was I doing? Sam had only been dead for a year. These three people were the most important ones in my life. Could I really risk fucking all that up for something that might fizzle and burn out before it even had a chance to catch a spark?

  “This is crazy, Cleo,” I said. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Do what, honey?” She stroked my hair and patted my back. “Fall in love again? Because I think it’s too late for that.”

  Oh God. “What if I’m not ready?”

  “It’s not something you can chose,” Imran said, gentler than I was used to from him. “It happens. And it’s messy and almost always at the wrong time, but are you really willing to let this go? Because you’re . . . afraid?”

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Torn between two fears.

  “I don’t even know if he still wants me.”

  Cleo burst out in a loud laugh. “Oh, he wants you, Ollie. And it’s going to be glorious.”

  I froze. “He didn’t.”

  She giggled. Imran looked uncomfortably amused.

  “He didn’t!” I repeated, scandalized.

  “Aw, don’t blame him. He was drunk and maudlin and missing you. But I have to say . . .” She gave my groin a meaningful glance. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look at this piece of art myself.”

  “Cleo!” Imran said, laughing.

  “I meant the painting,” she told him, then ogled me with a deliberately lecherous look.

  “Ew, ew, ew. You are like my sister. I’m not showing you the painting.”

  “One day,” she said, “I’m going to sneak up there and see for myself how, and I quote, ‘breathtakingly beautiful’ you are, Ollie.”

  I grabbed the pillow and whacked her with it. “Shut up,” I mumbled, to their apparent hilarity.

  I couldn’t call my job monotonous, but I did drag myself through the next week like a drone. I tried not to miss Thomas and did anyway. I tried to remember Sam, and while I could, and found solace in the memories and photographs, he felt further away from me than ever.

  At the same time I realized the emptiness of the house didn’t haunt me any longer. When Sam died, I’d been confronted with my greatest fear. It had taken a while, but being alone finally didn’t scare the crap out of me anymore. Beyond anything else, I knew I wanted to keep this house, needed it. Everyone my age had a mortgage, and I was lucky I’d lived rent free for this long, really. This place had been Sam’s and mine, and I would make sure it always stayed that way, no matter what happened next. In the end, money was only money, while this place was . . . home.

  Sam wouldn’t have rolled over at the first sign of trouble, and I didn’t plan to either.

  One night I dreamed about him. I couldn’t quite see his face, and his voice was muffled as if we were having a long-distance phone call. I missed Sam in an abstract way. I missed Thomas in a painful way.

  At last I found a bank that would give me my loan, even though it meant tightening my belt just about everywhere else for . . . the rest of my life, most likely.

  I emailed Stan.

  Thomas texted me on Thursday. You want to go for a drink tomorrow?

  Sure! I replied. What time and where?

  I’ll pick you up at seven.

  Huh. That was unusual but definitely not unwelcome if it would save me a tram ride.

  Sounds great.

  I slipped into a pair of jeans Sam had always loved on me, combined them with a short-sleeved slate-gray button-down, and slapped some cologne on my neck. My hair was getting too long again, so I tried to tame it a little and left it to flop around my ears. At seven my doorbell rang. I was surprised Thomas hadn’t honked like he usually did, but maybe he’d found easy parking.

  “Hey!” I yanked the door open and smiled too brightly, but fuck it—I was so happy to see him. “Oh wow, you look great.”

  “Um, thanks.” He stuffed his hands in a pair of really tight jeans. They hugged his thighs lovingly, and I envied them a little. I also wanted to gnaw on the biceps straining the sleeves of his button-down.

  “How have you been? We haven’t heard from you in a while. Do Cleo and Imran know where we’re meeting up? Oh, Imran has a late shift tonight, doesn’t he? Well, maybe he’ll join us after.” I closed the door and looked up at him. His mouth was parted as if he’d been about to say something, but he just stood there, looking at me. “What—”

  My phone
rang, and I glanced at the screen and froze. “Oh, it’s Sam’s mom. Do you mind if I take it?”

  He seemed to shake himself from whatever was keeping him tongue-tied. “Of course not. Go ahead. I’m parked right here.” He clicked his key, and his car unlocked about three spaces down from where we stood.

  “Okay.” I brought the phone to my ear, my heartbeat fluttering with nerves. Were they going to try to talk me into giving in? Was I even allowed to talk them about it? I had no idea. I answered cautiously. “Hello?”

  “Oliver? It’s Martine.”

  “Yes, I know. Is everything okay?” Despite the whole situation, I hoped nothing was wrong. I didn’t wish them any more tragedy in their lives.

  “Yes. Well, that is to say . . .” She sighed softly. “Simon doesn’t know I’m calling.”

  “Oh.” I leaned against Thomas’s car and wrapped one arm around my middle. “What’s this about, Martine? If it’s about the house—”

  “It’s not. The thing is, the trial starts in two weeks. For Sam’s killer. I . . . We won’t be able to go. It’s too much. But I wish someone would be there. For Sam, so someone’s present for him.”

  “And you want me to go,” I said.

  Martine didn’t answer for a long time, then whispered, “Yes, Ollie. I wanted to ask you if you could go.”

  I ground my teeth together. “You have some nerve asking me for favors,” I said quietly, unable to contain my anger. Part of me felt bad because I didn’t think she was the catalyst in the house situation, but I couldn’t help it. “That house is mine. Sam wanted it that way. You are going directly against his wishes and making my life unnecessarily difficult.”

  “I know,” Martine said, crying. “It’s not—”

  “But I’ll go,” I interrupted her, not wanting to hear it. “I’ll go for Sam.” I left the and not for you unsaid, but I thought she heard it regardless.

  “I have to go,” she suddenly said. “I’ll email you the details.” And just like that the line went dead.

  I was shaking by the time I managed to open the passenger door. Thomas smiled up at me, but his face fell when I sank into the seat.

  “What is it? Ollie?”

  Slowly I turned to stare at Thomas. “The trial for Sam’s killer starts in two weeks. Sam’s mom wants me to be there.”

  His hands made the steering wheel creak. “And what do you want?” he asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I never thought about it.” The killer had been caught thanks to CCTV footage during my month of near-unconsciousness following Sam’s death. I hadn’t given it much thought beyond, Good. I stuffed my hands between my thighs. The seams of my jeans dug into my skin. “It’s not something I normally would’ve done. I mean, what good will it do? It’s not going to change anything. But it’s for Sam. So I said I would go. And I think I will, but . . .” The idea scared me so much my palms were already sweating.

  His jaw flexed, and he stared resolutely ahead. “I’ll come with you.” He pushed the gear stick into first.

  “Thank you,” I said after a while, and he threw me a half smile.

  We drove in silence until Thomas found a good spot in the center of town. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “Yeah, sure. Do you want to get pitas? I haven’t had pitas in forever.”

  He gave me a pained look. “That’s a lot of garlic.”

  “Eh.” I shrugged. “I don’t mind if you don’t.” Thomas buried his face in his hands. “What?” I asked, laughing a little confusedly. “What is it? What did I do now? We don’t have to eat pitas, Thomas. It was just an idea.”

  He sat up so fast I startled, and his eyes were dark and fiery. “This is a date, okay, Ollie? A date. Cleo won’t be coming. In fact she helped me get dressed and then she went home and she’s expecting me to text her after we have all the hot sex, because that’s what she thought was going to happen. So no, if it’s okay with you, I don’t want to eat pitas.”

  “I . . .” I was squashed against the passenger window. I shuffled back into the seat. The heat in Thomas’s eyes dwindled, and his mouth pinched together. He ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, messing it up. The way he was dressed, the pickup at my door . . . I should’ve known. “Shit,” I breathed. “Oh man. I had no idea. I fucked up. Did I fuck up? I fucked up, didn’t I?”

  He blew out a hot breath and stared at the street, where traffic crawled by. “No, Ollie.” He reached for my knee and squeezed it, letting go quickly. “You didn’t fuck up. I did. I should’ve called you and asked you out properly and actually mentioned the word date. Not just texted you and asked you to go for a drink like we always do. Let’s”—he reached for the keys still stuck in the ignition—“forget it and go home.”

  “No!” I sprang at him and yanked the keys out of his grip. “No. We can do this. Let me . . . get my head around this. Okay. See over there? Andre’s. I’ve heard of that place, but I’ve never been there. I am getting out of the car, and I’ll grab us a table. You wait five minutes and join me. We can pretend that’s when our date starts. Okay?” My heart hammered, then flopped around like a fish on dry land when Thomas slowly began to smile.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Okay. That sounds good.”

  I handed him the keys. “Five minutes,” I said, grinning stupidly. “You and me. On a date.”

  He laughed under his breath and glanced away with a blush on his cheeks. I hurried out of the car before I made a complete idiot of myself. When I crossed the street and glanced over my shoulder, he wasn’t looking at me. He frowned briefly at his phone before pressing it to his ear. I didn’t think anything of it, but when he followed me into the restaurant not five, but twenty minutes later, he was white as a sheet.

  “Thomas?” I rose to my feet and took a step toward him. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?” A waiter had been approaching our table, but he took one look at Thomas’s face, spun on his heel, and walked away. “Hey, come sit. You look like you’re going to pass out.”

  “I can’t . . . I can’t stay.”

  “Oh. Is it your dad? Did something happen? If you need to go, I can take a tram. It’s no problem.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not that.”

  To my absolute shock, he was shaking. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here. This is no place to talk.” I shuffled Thomas out of the restaurant. “Well, that was the shortest date in the history of all dates,” I tried to joke.

  He turned his soulful eyes down to me. “I can’t date you,” he whispered.

  My heart began a slow thud I didn’t like at all. “Well, that’s . . . a pity, but we can work it out. It’s all fine. Um, why don’t you tell me what changed your mind over the past twenty minutes?”

  He tried to unlock the car, but his fingers shook so hard he dropped his keys. I began to get really worried.

  “Okay, buddy,” I softly said as I put a hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you let me drive, and we’ll talk at my house. Unless there’s somewhere you need to be?”

  “No, your house is fine.” He didn’t say anything else as he climbed into the passenger seat, and he remained quiet on the short ride home. Every once in a while I caught him squeezing his eyes closed, like his brain had conjured up something he couldn’t stand remembering.

  I managed to park pretty close to my house and let him inside. “Are you hungry?” I asked him in the hallway. He shook his head. “Coffee? Beer?”

  “A beer would be nice.”

  “Make yourself comfortable in the living room. I’ll be right there.”

  I grabbed two Hoegaardens and hurried back to find him sitting on the edge of the couch, his head in his hands. “Thanks,” he said hoarsely when I nudged him with the beer.

  “You’ve got me really worried now. What’s going on, Thomas?” I sat down on the coffee table so I could look him straight in the eye.

  “Remember that girl in the Nine Barrels last year? The . . . the night Sam died?”

/>   “Yes,” I said and a chill ran down my spine. “Of course.”

  “I didn’t meet her that night. I slept with her on and off for about six months. We both knew it was casual. Apparently something went wrong with a condom. I’m . . . She had a baby.”

  I gaped at him. “Oh my God.” He was a dad? “And it’s definitely . . . yours?” I cringed as I asked it, but he gave me a wry smile.

  “She says so. She says she didn’t sleep with anyone but me during that time, and I believe her.”

  “Okay.” I wanted to tell him to think about paternity tests and whatnot, but that wasn’t my place. Besides, he’d probably thought about that too. “Why didn’t she let you know while she was pregnant?”

  “She thought she could handle it alone.”

  I didn’t say the obvious. “Well . . . that’s unexpected, sure. And it’s a shock. But I mean . . . you have a good wage, a steady job. You’re an amazing person. Does she want you to be involved?” Naively, or maybe even stupidly, I warmed to the idea. “It’d be kind of cool, wouldn’t it? The baby would be with you like, what? Every other weekend? Or does she want a fifty-fifty split? Or does she only want money? Because you can fight that. Or not, whatever you want, obviously.” I frowned and my heart chilled a little. Did she want him with the baby permanently? As in a relationship? Did Thomas want that too? “But why can’t we date? I’m going to be insulted if you’re assuming I don’t want to be in a relationship with you just because you might come with a little extra.”

  He laughed, a desolate sound. “Oh, Ollie.” He put his hand on my knee and held on. “It wouldn’t be like having a little playmate every other weekend. Liesbeth is suffering from severe postpartum depression. She’s been trying to fight it herself, but she has no family and all the party friends she had basically dropped her like a stone. She was still in college and had to put it on hold. I wish . . . I wish she’d reached out sooner.”

  I felt bad for my selfish thoughts. “Jesus, Thomas, what happened?”

  “She was having some unhealthy ideas, so she went to see a psychologist. He recommends she go to this new clinic in Bruges, an inpatient place where she’d stay for sixty days. If I don’t take the baby, he’ll go to foster care during that time. Probably longer.”