Patchwork Paradise(14)

“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.