Patchwork Paradise(30)

Anger burned through my veins. The house was ours. Sam had wanted me to have it. All his parents wanted it for was money. They didn’t care about the memories that haunted every single room like docile, friendly ghosts. I couldn’t reconcile any of this with the people I’d known and loved my whole life. Especially Simon, who was fast becoming a stranger, after I’d seen him as a second father for so long.

Stan was watching me intently. “I’ll think about it,” I told him wearily.

“You can take your time. Nothing is going to happen during the holidays, so there is no rush.” He pursed his lips, then went on. “Another option is that you offer to buy them out.”

“I don’t have that kind of money.”

“You could get a loan if you wanted. Again, it all depends on how badly you want the house.”

“Okay, I’ll think about it,” I repeated, and rose to my feet. I shook his hand and left, mind reeling. I had a lot to go over, and I decided to let it all percolate as I shopped for presents.

It turned out to be impossible to find something suitable for Thomas. I’d toyed with the idea of giving him a book, but how terribly impersonal would that be? Especially since I had no clue what he liked to read. I trailed the menswear shops and went through colognes, picked up and discarded art prints, moved on to a winery and almost bought a bottle of wine, only to remember we’d be drinking copious amounts of alcohol all night so what would be the point of that?

It was nearly three o’clock on the twenty-third and everyone would be arriving at my doorstep in four hours. I still had to clean the house, shower, and start the cooking. Everyone would bring a dish or two, but the ham was my responsibility.

In near desperation, I almost picked up a dumb set of whiskey stones, even though I’d never seen Thomas drink whiskey. My eye fell on a desk protector. It was a large world map. I remembered a late evening—or early morning—one of the few where Thomas hadn’t pulled a one-night stand and we’d all ended up in Sam’s and my living room. Sobering up but drunk on tiredness, Thomas had been sitting next to me. His head had lolled onto my shoulder, and in a soft voice he’d confessed he’d always wanted to travel, but he never seemed to find anyone he wanted to travel with. Or the ones he did, didn’t want to travel with him.

At the time it’d seemed like nothing, but now it felt like a terribly intimate confession. I picked up the map. It didn’t look like much, and I almost put it down again before I noticed it came with a little tool. The idea was to scratch off a brown layer for each country visited, to reveal a colorful world beneath.

It was perfect.

I had it wrapped up and hurried home so I could get on with the rest of my day. At six thirty I shoved the ham in the oven and rushed upstairs to shower, sending a group text saying the door was open and to let themselves in, in case I wasn’t down yet.

I dressed with care but for comfort. I thought about applying some of Sam’s products to my hair, but remembered that had never worked before. Though I’d had my hair cut, it still wouldn’t work now.

“First Christmas without you, Sam,” I said. I pulled a T-shirt from his drawer, but it smelled only of me now. “I guess I should start packing these up, huh?”

There was no reply. I listened in the stairwell for a second but heard no movement downstairs. I was still alone. In a moment’s indecision, I stared at the steps that would lead me to the attic. It felt good. Right. I climbed up.

Somewhere below me, a door opened. “Only me!”

I opened the door to Sam’s art room, calling back, “Up here, Thomas.”

I walked inside and stood in the familiar room. I hadn’t been up here in so long. Dust motes drifted in the last of the December light.

“Ollie? Oh.”

Thomas appeared in the doorway, looking windswept and handsome. His hair was pulled back in a bun low on his neck. His eyelashes were so dark, it looked like he was wearing eyeliner.

“Hey,” I said.

He took a careful step closer. “What’s this?”

“It was supposed to be Sam’s wedding present for me.”

“Oh, Ollie.” Thomas squeezed my shoulder. “Have you never looked at it?”

“No.”

“Do you want me to go?”

I thought about that for a moment. The ache in my chest wasn’t suffocating me. In a way it felt sweet. “No,” I said. “I’d like you to stay, if you want.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

I walked to the easel and gently pulled the sheet off the canvas. Because I was so close to it, I didn’t immediately register what it was, but Thomas did.

“Oh my God!”

Alarmed, I looked at him. He had his hands in his hair. His eyes flicked from me to the painting, and back to my . . . groin? He spun on his heel and faced the other direction. I took three steps back and echoed his words weakly.

“Oh my God.”

Sam had painted us in the middle of having sex. I was on my knees, facing the viewer, arms stretched back to hold on to Sam, who was f*cking me from behind. I had an erection that would’ve held a flag up. I surrender.

It was stunning, but, “Fuck.”

I began to laugh and glanced over my shoulder. Thomas risked a look too. When he saw I wasn’t upset, he gingerly turned around again.