Patchwork Paradise(31)

“Damn, Ollie. Is that thing true to size?”

“Oh my God.” I laughed harder, and Thomas sniggered along.

“That’s an amazing painting. It really is. But maybe you should leave it up here.”

“Yeah, that might not—”

“Hi! We’re here!”

We stared at each other, wide-eyed, swore at the same time, and scrambled over to the painting. We fumbled with the sheet, giggling like naughty schoolboys, and covered it up before stumbling out of the room and down the stairs.

“What are you guys up to?” Cleo asked.

“If you drank all the champagne already, I’m going to be pissed,” Imran said.

Thomas and I looked at each other, started laughing again, and didn’t stop until Cleo began to get mad for not being included in the joke.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “We’re being silly.”

“Yeah,” Thomas said. “Nothing’s up, Cleo.” He caught my eye, and that set us off again.

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She stomped to the fridge and put the dessert away.

I tried to feel bad but couldn’t. I didn’t know what it would’ve been like discovering that painting by myself, but it had been okay with Thomas there. Mildly embarrassing, but surprisingly okay.



We drank and then we ate and then we drank some more after we exchanged our secret Santas. The gifts themselves were rarely anything special, but it was a fun tradition that brought a touch of normalcy when Sam’s glaring absence threatened to overwhelm the evening. Thomas stared at his map for a long time before he gave me a strangely solemn thank-you. I thought I’d made a mistake buying it, but throughout the whole evening he kept touching it, tracing lines all over the countries.

Cleo had brought a huge chocolate and vanilla ice cream log topped with pistachio nuts, and even though I’d eaten so much already that I had to pop the button on my pants, I ate two helpings of that too.

Sometime after midnight, we retreated to the living room and sprawled all over the sectional. I turned on the TV but left it on mute. Imran raised his glass unsteadily and said, “To Sam. We still miss him, and we always will.” The house seemed to breathe in agreement, warm and fragrant with Christmas scents. I thought of all the holidays I’d spent with Sam wrapped around me and how happy we’d been here.

“To Sam,” we echoed and drank. I remembered the painting upstairs and the urge to giggle bubbled up my throat. I felt Thomas’s eyes on me, but when I looked at him, he was staring at the flashing TV screen. He did have a small smirk on his face though.

“By the way, is it okay if we crash here?” Cleo asked. Her head lolled to the side, and she blinked at me blearily. “I really don’t want to call a cab right now.”

“Sure,” I said. “Like I said, you can all crash if you want to. You should stay too, Thomas. I have at least two spare bedrooms made up, so take your pick.”

He sank down on his side of the sectional a little more, and his feet ended up in Imran’s lap. “I think I might stay here,” he said. “This couch is comfortable.”

I knew that. I’d slept here plenty of times with Sam, sometimes because we’d been exhausted and had fallen asleep before we could drag ourselves upstairs, and sometimes because . . . well. It was a comfortable couch.

A flicker of awareness passed between Imran and Cleo. I didn’t immediately understand what it was, but suddenly he dumped Thomas’s feet off of his lap, stood, and dragged her up.

“Night, boys,” she told us, blowing us each a kiss.

Thomas mumbled something incoherently and snuggled deeper into the couch. I watched them, tracked their footsteps, and oh God, they picked the bedroom right above our heads.

“Um,” I said. “I don’t know if you’re going to want to sleep here.”

“What?” Thomas’s eyelids were already half-closed, and he blinked sleepily. I flopped to the side a little more so I landed near his head.

“They’re going to—” And yep, there it was. Creaking bedsprings.

“Fuck no!” Thomas gave a disbelieving guffaw and grabbed a pillow and stuffed his head underneath it. I did the same. I lay so our faces were close, our feet at opposite ends of the sectional. “It’s okay,” he whispered loudly. “He doesn’t last long when he’s drunk.”

I peeked from behind my cushion. “How the hell do you know that?”

“Remember when they were, uh, on a break?” When Thomas had slept with Cleo, in other words. “Well, after that we talked. The three of us. To see if we could work things out and remain friends. We all got drunk and Imran and Cleo started to do it right there on my couch! I escaped to my bed. He didn’t last long, thank goodness.”

I sobered up a little. “When was this?”

“Not long after the trip to Bouillon.” Thomas flattened his hand on the couch. His fingertips nearly touched the heel of my hand. “We didn’t want to bother you, Ollie, so don’t feel left out. And I think it’s something we needed to work out ourselves. It nearly ruined our friendship, and we kind of realized we couldn’t do that to you.”

“Hey,” I said, sitting up. I reached for a half-empty bottle of champagne, took a lukewarm swig, and passed it to Thomas. “I don’t want your pity. Any of you. If you didn’t get along anymore, I could still be friends with you separately.” I wasn’t sure why it rubbed me the wrong way that they’d gotten together and decided they had to work this out for my sake, but it did. Even if the thought of our friendships shattering gave me hives, I wasn’t the child of a divorcing couple, for God’s sake. We drained the bottle while we tried to ignore the squeaking above us.