Patchwork Paradise(23)

Cleo and Imran had solidly made up during our trip to the Ardennes. Thomas had dated Marjory for another week or two before distance drove them apart. I had . . . worked.

“A date?” I wrinkled my nose. The music was loud in this bar, and not at all to my taste, but finding a new hangout was proving difficult. I liked the trendy interior with the gray walls and the wooden floor, but the acoustics were all wrong and the music grated on my nerves. I was glad we’d found a seat hidden away in a corner.

I looked around to see where the others were, stalling so I didn’t have to answer her. Imran was getting us more drinks, and Thomas was . . . somewhere. The two of them had barely said a word to each other, and their awkward silence made me feel like I’d start to hyperventilate. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”

“You’re not. But you never will be until you start.” She set her wineglass down and leaned across the table to hold my hand. “You don’t have to jump into a relationship, Ollie. You need to go for a few dinners, have a few drinks. Meet people. It’s part of the healing process.”

“You specializing in psychology or something?”

It was a joke, but she turned red in the mood lighting. “No. I may have read up a little bit on how to deal with grief and move on.”

I bristled. “I’ll move on in my own time, Cleo.”

“But will you though?” Imran planted a Hoegaarden in front of me, and I made grabby hands at it. He slid it away from me. “She’s right. You need to get out of your shell again or you’ll be stuck in that house until it’s a mausoleum.”

I could feel my anger build. How dare they put a time frame on my grief? I had opened my mouth to tell them exactly that when someone behind me said, “It’s been six months. Don’t push him.”

I jumped a little and glanced up at Thomas, who slid a chair out and wouldn’t look at me. We hadn’t seen much of each other since we went to Bouillon. I’d told myself it wasn’t because of the canoe incident, but I’d been fooling myself.

When I finally caught his eye, I mouthed, Thank you. The corners of his mouth lifted, seemingly reluctantly, and a foot bumped mine under the table. I smiled and reached for my beer, but Imran’s scowl made me uneasy.

“I’ll think about it, okay?” I said, trying to appease them a little so we could just get on with our night like the friends we’d always been. “But I’m not promising anything.”

Thomas studied my face, but I couldn’t read his expression at all.

“Okay, good,” Cleo said. “Now. On to Christmas. I need to know the when, the where, and are we doing secret Santa?”

All the men groaned. “It’s Ollie and Sa—” Imran snapped his mouth shut.

“No, you’re right,” I said before the silence could suffocate us all. “It was our turn and we can still do it at our house. In fact . . .” I warmed to the idea. The thought of filling my too empty, too quiet house with my friends made my heart feel lighter. Maybe for the last time, if Sam’s parents got their way. “I think that would be great. We could do it on the twenty-third or the twenty-sixth and everyone can stay the night.”

“We’re going to see my family on the twenty-sixth,” Imran said, and Cleo nodded. “But the twenty-third works.”

“In that case . . .” Cleo whipped her handbag out—or clutch, or whatever they called those wallet-sized things. Why she didn’t just carry her wallet was beyond me. She removed four pieces of paper. She held them up to me first. “Choose.”

I mumbled something rude under my breath and pulled a name. She did the same to Imran and Thomas, then folded open her own name. She made a face, looked at Thomas’s, grinned, looked at mine, and snatched mine out of my hand.

“Hey!” Imran said, laughing.

“Well, what’s the point of that?” I asked. “It’s supposed to be secret Santa.”

“I pulled that one last year. I want someone else.”

I glanced at my name and frowned. Thomas. Hadn’t she had Sam last year?

“So you know the rules,” Cleo went on before I could point out her mistake. “Don’t spend over twenty-five euros, and no gag gifts.”

“Fine,” Imran groaned. “Whatever makes you happy, babe.”

She tucked her name in her purse, drained her wineglass, and held out her hand. “Dance with me,” she said to Imran, and Thomas and I watched them go.

“You going to dance?” I asked Thomas.

He gave me a light shrug. “Maybe later.” He sipped his beer. He’d let his beard grow a little bit, and his cheeks were scruffy and rough. A stark contrast to the soft swell of his full mouth. It made him look mysterious, and brought out the green in his brown eyes. He scooped his hair away from his face, and it drifted down again.

“Have you heard anything about the house?” he asked.

I made a face, not really wanting to talk about it. “I’ve been warned their lawyer will be in touch, apparently.”

Thomas frowned. “You should probably contact your own lawyer just in case. To get some information and stuff.”

“Yeah maybe,” I said and looked away.

Thomas took the hint. “So, you really thinking about dating again?”