Patchwork Paradise(19)

I closed my eyes and sighed. What was I doing here? Pretending I could move on? After one whole month? The ache for Sam burned in my veins. The scar inside me hurt like a fresh bruise. I never knew grief could fluctuate like this, allowing me to feel fine one day and wrecked the next.

I thought of Sam’s painting in the attic. I thought of the tuxedos hanging in our closet, packed away in suit bags now that we’d never wear them. I knew what I was doing here. I was hoping being with my friends, away from home, would distract me from the horrible truth. My phone buzzed again.

I know what day it is today. Please tell me you’re okay.

I’m fine.

Then come home. Cleo and Imran are here.

Part of me wanted to hide for the entire day, but what good would that do? It was just another day, an insignificant moment that would be part of my blurry past soon. Not the happiest time of my life. That had been snatched away from me for good.

I got back to the apartment at noon, finding the three of them on the balcony, eating tapas and drinking wine. Thomas sat with his back safely tucked against the wall, as far away from the railing as possible.

A lull fell in the conversation when I joined them, and while I didn’t think they’d been talking about me, I knew what they were all thinking now. Cleo was the first to approach me.

“Ollie,” she whispered and hugged me.

“It’s fine. It’s just another day.”

“But it’s not,” Imran said. “You can’t pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

“We thought . . . we could do something.” Thomas rose to his feet. “A little ceremony of our own. To remember him.”

I shook my head. “I don’t—”

“You need to share your grief, Ollie. Or you’re never going to get over it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get over it,” I said. “Maybe I don’t want to forget.”

“This isn’t about forgetting.” Thomas reached into his pocket. “It’s about remembering.”

I stared at the white velvet pouch in his hand. With trembling fingers I took it from him and opened it. Two heavy platinum rings dropped into my palm, cold and glittering in the midday sun. I covered my mouth, afraid of the sound that might come out.

“Wait,” Imran said. “Why do you have those? I was his best man.” And Cleo had been my “best lady.”

“He thought you’d forget them with your brain still half stuck in the hospital,” Cleo said. “Or that you’d get called in for surgery and you’d forget to hand over the rings to me and they’d be standing at the altar, ringless.”

Thomas was trying not to laugh at Imran’s outraged expression but failed. “I’m sorry,” he said—to me or Imran, I didn’t know.

“No, you’re right.” I closed my fingers around the rings. “Let’s go remember him. I know just the place.”



I wasn’t a religious person, but when I’d visited the Abbaye de Clairefontaine as an eleven-year-old boy, I’d been awestruck. The church and cloister stood regally by the side of the Semois River, with a very green wall of forest at their backs and no houses nearby. The Cistercian sisters lived there and offered a space for peaceful retreat to those who wanted it.

When we left the apartment, everyone had been pretty subdued, but as we walked onto the grounds of the abbey, the silence grew almost reverent. Because I figured there was no hurry, we visited the church, browsed the little gift shop, and then walked the grounds until I found the spot I’d been looking for. A tiny beach hugged the shore of the Semois, and when I took off my shoes and socks, everyone else followed suit.

“So when I came here when I was eleven, Sam was here too,” I said to no one in particular. “We were in the same class that year. In fact I think that was the last time. After that we were always in different classrooms. We’d snuck away from the tour guide and stuck our hot feet in the water. We’d been walking all day and were . . . tired of it, I guess.” I walked up to the water and let it lap at my toes. “I remember having these weird feelings for him. He was my friend, but . . . at the same time I thought things about him that were confusing and a little bit scary and . . . he knew. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but he used to look at me in a certain way and tell me everything would work out fine. Even then he was looking out for me. Protecting me. And he was right. It did turn out fine. For a while.” I fell silent, having to take a moment to let the burn in my throat subside. A hand came to rest on my back, and I didn’t have to look to know it was Thomas. “I think he saved my life that night,” I whispered. “He stepped between us, and the guy stabbed him. I think it should’ve been me. It should’ve been—”

“Oh, Ollie.” Cleo wriggled her way under my shoulder and wrapped her arms around me. The hand on my back slid to my neck and squeezed slightly. “You can’t think like that,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said. “I know.” But in my darkest hours I wished that it’d been me. Sometimes I couldn’t help feeling like Sam had it easy. He didn’t feel any pain anymore, didn’t have to go through the drudgery of getting up in the morning, or enduring those moments in the night when nothing seemed worth continuing for. I couldn’t tell my friends that though. I couldn’t tell anyone how I sometimes felt. “He’s gone and I’m here and that means I have to go on for as long as I need to. I . . .” I looked out over the river, the current sweeping past us and licking at our toes. “I miss you so much, Sammy. I’ll never forget you. I’ll never love anyone the way I loved you.”