Patchwork Paradise(15)

“I’m sorry, Oliver.”

I gave him a little grin. “It’s okay, Thomas.”

He laughed. “This is all very heavy, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Do you think Cleo and Imran have killed each other yet? Maybe I should text them.”

“I bet they’ve pulled off the road to screw in the backseat.”

I’d been reaching for my phone and gingerly put it away again. “That’s a visual I don’t need.”

He looked at me curiously before turning his attention back to the road. “So you’ve never? With a girl?”

“God no.” I shuddered. “Never even considered the notion. Besides, when would I have? I was with Sam from . . .” My voice died out.

“When you were sixteen, I know.” He shifted in his seat. His voice sounded odd when he said, “It’s going to come back to this for a long time, isn’t it?”

This? Did he mean pain? Loss? Five minutes of reprieve before remembering I should be in pieces, not enjoying a mini road trip with a good friend?

“Yeah,” I said, grinding my teeth. “It’s going to come back to this for a long time.”

Thomas sent me a contrite look, but I didn’t want his apology so I looked away. When I didn’t say anything else, he turned the music back on. One song in and he was humming again. I relaxed a little and closed my eyes.



I dreamed of Sam. There’d been snatches of him in my sleep before, but not this vivid. The scene felt like an overexposed photograph, with a sharp light—the sun?—surrounding us in a crisp white halo. He didn’t say anything, and neither did I. I couldn’t even tell where we were. I thought I felt sand under my feet, and maybe there was the taste of salt in the air. My head was resting on his shoulder in a way that would be uncomfortable soon, but in that moment I didn’t feel it. The light danced around us, and we watched it. I felt his warmth. I heard his breath. Forever and ever we remained suspended in timeless silence. Peace I hadn’t experienced in weeks enveloped me. Then his touch—on my cheekbone, down my jaw. His thumb skirted my chin.

“Ollie?”

“Hmm.” I smiled. His voice sounded deeper, softer than I remembered.

“Ollie?”

His fingers in my hair.

“Ollie, we’re here.”

I sat up with a jerk and stared into Thomas’s eyes. “Oh. Shit. I dozed off. Ow.” I rubbed my neck, and he winced.

“Yeah, you didn’t look comfortable, but I figured you could use the sleep.”

“Thanks.” I felt self-conscious for a moment, wondering if my contentment had bled through into the real world. I waited for the crash of reality, but it didn’t come down as hard as it had in the past month.

Thomas still stared at me, worry lines creasing his forehead. His deep, dark gaze traced my face. I could tell he wanted to ask me if I was okay, and I was oddly grateful he didn’t. He’d pulled his hair into a bun at the back of his head. A few wisps escaped and drifted along his slightly stubbled jaw. Which was when I noticed the windows were open. The sweet herby fragrance that spilled into the car betrayed we were indeed no longer in Antwerp.

I broke the strange moment and looked around me. Bouillon sits tucked in the arm of the river Semois, and over it presides the gorgeous Chateau de Bouillon. On my school trip years ago, we’d wandered the dripping underground passages that disappeared into the hillsides, imagined the worst of dank prison cells buried in the bowels of the beast. It’d been built in nine hundred and something—I couldn’t remember the exact year—with Godfried of Bouillon its most famous occupant. We used to like imagining what it would’ve been like to live in the Dark Ages. It had all sounded wonderful to two adventurous little boys. Knights, horses, romanticized wars. Now I realized it must’ve been pure hell.

These days people could visit the castle at night if they liked to scare themselves, or during the day to see bird shows with hawks and eagles. I didn’t think it bore much resemblance to the reality of the castle’s heyday.

“We can go see it if you want,” Thomas said, and I startled guiltily. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

“Yeah,” I said, even though I didn’t want to diminish my perfect childhood memories by realizing the castle wasn’t as grand and impressive as I’d thought back then. I smiled at Thomas. “Maybe.” I took a closer look around. “So this is it?”

“Yep.” He grinned. “You did good.”

We were parked on the Boulevard de Vauban, the road that followed the river. On one side the water looped around the town, while on the other side, buildings and houses hugged the foot of the hill upon which the castle perched like a slumbering dragon. Our apartment waited in one of the white houses to our right. To be honest, I’d spent a lot more money on it than I usually would, mostly because it was high season and everything else was booked, but also because I wanted my own bedroom.

“Ready?” I asked Thomas. When he nodded, I stepped out of the car.

The apartment that was ours was a top one, a sea of white and gleaming silver fixings. When we entered, we walked under a huge arch that led into the kitchen, which was open plan and gave way to a living room with a view that made us both gasp. The river seemed to run at our feet underneath the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond that lay the impossible green of one of Belgium’s biggest forests.