Patchwork Paradise(35)

“Not necessarily,” Imran said. “It’s easy to mistake a deep friendship for romantic love, especially when it’s one-sided to begin with. You might be responding to his feelings rather than generating feelings of your own.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m aware of that, thank you. And you’re not helping.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I lifted my pint and drained half of it. “Fuck knows. He’s in Greece. Being bathed and fed olives while young, nubile, athletic Greeks wave banana leaves at him. Have you seen him recently? He looks like a god. With pecs and abs. And skin like honey. Ah, hell.” I drained the rest of my beer as Cleo thumbed through her phone.

She shoved it under my nose. “Like this, you mean?” I knew the picture she was going to show me before I saw it. I followed him on Instagram too. It was in front of a cute blue church on the rocky island of Rhodes. He perched shirtless on a motorbike. His grin was white in his brown face. I seethed with jealousy at the person holding that damn camera.

“I think this may go beyond friendship,” Imran said as he gave me a wide-eyed look. I pulled myself together.

“I honestly don’t know. Some days I feel like I don’t want to be with anyone at all because I’d be cheating on Sam.”

“You know Sam would’ve wanted—”

“Yes, Cleo,” I said tersely. “I’ve heard it all before. That doesn’t change the fact that this is how it feels.”

“You’re right,” she said, like I was a petulant child who needed calming. “So how often do you talk?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Once . . . four, five times a week?”

“Five times a week?” Imran and Cleo shared a look.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mumbled and played with my empty beer bottle. Thomas was my best friend. I couldn’t risk losing him to a probably misconceived notion of romance. Besides, he was too far away to get romantic with, so why was I even worrying about this? A teenager walked past with a red heart balloon, and I wanted to pop it with a toothpick. Ten toothpicks.

He called me that night, because I was a giant liar and we talked every day. I’d snuggled into my pajamas like I always did, ready for him on the couch with the TV on mute and a mug of rose hip tea cradled in my hands.

“Hey, Ollie,” he said.

“Hey, how’s it going? You still on Rhodes?”

“Yes. I’ll be leaving tomorrow for the mainland, and then it’s up toward Istanbul.”

“Man, that sounds so exciting. Tell me everything you did today.” And he did. I closed my eyes, only for a moment, so I could bask in the warmth of his voice. I’d gotten used to ending my days with him murmuring in my ear. I wondered how I’d get on when he returned. He’d been gone for three weeks and already I couldn’t imagine not talking to him every day.

Maybe he’ll be here, actually murmuring in your ear, when he gets back, a little voice in my head told me. It made me sad because it made me remember Sam, how I’d loved him my whole life, and here I was not even a year later, thinking of loving someone else.

“Ollie, you still there?”

“Yes, I’m listening.”

“Good, because I have to tell you something.”

I sat up a little bit. “Yeah? What is it? You okay?”

“Yes, I’m . . . I’m great actually. I, uh, met someone.”

In my head, all the gears ground to a screeching halt.

“His name is Stephen Dane. He’s American. He’s traveling too, for a whole year, can you imagine? He’s, um, going to tag along with me for a while.”

“Oh.” My mouth felt dry as dust. “That’s great, Thomas. So . . . he’s nice?”

“Yeah, I like him a lot. He finished an international business degree so he’s taking some time off before starting the job hunt.”

“That sounds . . . amazing.” I couldn’t reboot my brain, so I mumbled nonsensical things as he went on about the places he’d visited with Stephen. It sounded like they’d been hanging out for days. Why had he not told me sooner? I didn’t want to ask. It wasn’t my place.

I didn’t remember how we ended the conversation, but after that Stephen was in nearly all the pictures. He was disgustingly gorgeous in that wholesome American way. Broad shoulders, white teeth, close-cropped hair, and a jaw Michelangelo would’ve wanted to sculpt. I hated him. And maybe I wasn’t very good at hiding it, because Thomas called less, and I didn’t call him either.

The weeks crept by a minute at a time. Valentine’s came and went, and so did Thomas’s return date. Cleo told me he’d ditched his car somewhere and he was staying in Prague for a few weeks because Stephen loved it there so much.

I knew they both returned to Belgium at some point, but I saw neither of them. Instead I gritted my teeth and went to work, went to see my mom. I went for drinks with Cleo, consulted with my lawyer about the house, generally walked through life in a numb haze—and then there it was. The anniversary of Sam’s death.

I hadn’t planned anything in particular. It was a normal Monday afternoon in June, with weak sunlight and the threat of rain. I didn’t expect anyone to take time off, but I sent a mass text to whoever I thought might care that I’d be at his grave at two, and that anyone who wanted to join me for a coffee afterward was welcome.