Patchwork Paradise(38)

I’d never had to pay a mortgage before, and an old house like that was a money suck regardless. Heating bills, repairs, it all fell to me now. If I had to pay off even half of a huge place like that, it’d break my bank account. And the thought of having to pay because Sam’s dad was an *—pay for something that was rightfully mine—made me see red. “I can’t believe they can do this.”

“I know. And if we had any other judge, I’d say fight them to the end. With this one . . . it’s a huge risk to take.”

“I don’t know if I can get a mortgage for even half the house.”

Stan nodded. “Think about it, contact some banks about loans, but don’t wait too long. I need an answer soon so I can plan a strategy.” He put his palms flat on the desk and leaned a little closer. “If you want to fight this, I’ll go there with you. But in the end all that matters is that you get what you want. And paying a mortgage might be the only way to do it.”

I left his office in a daze, wondering, not for the first time, if this was all worth it. After all, it was just a house, no matter how much of a relief it sometimes was to pull that door closed behind me and shut out the world. I could feel the same about any other house. Couldn’t I?

For a while I did nothing but wallow in indecision. More than anything, I wanted to talk to Thomas about this, but I couldn’t bring myself to call him. I only saw him when everyone else was around, and I kept quiet about my troubles.

And then Thomas and Stephen broke up and things turned really awkward. It almost seemed like he was mad at me. He didn’t come to our Saturday outing for two weeks in a row. Cleo said he almost never answered his phone anymore, and when I called him, all I got was voice mail, like I’d been blocked.

So I drove out there again, on a sunny summer day at the very end of July.

Thomas’s car was parked in front of his door, so I knew he was home, but as I rang and rang the doorbell, no one answered.

I opened his letter box and peered through it. On the floor was a stack of mail that was days, if not weeks old. A chill of fear raced down my spine. Oh God, no.

“Thomas?” I yelled. “Thomas, it’s me, Ollie! If you’re in there, please come and open the door. Thomas!” Nothing. I dithered on the doorstep for a second, then opened the letter box again. “Thomas? I’m going to call an ambulance, okay? If you’re hurt and you can hear me, help is coming!”

I heard a noise, a bang. A door creaked and then footsteps stumbled down the stairs. I saw something move, and the door snapped open so hard I nearly ripped the lip of the letter box off. I straightened and gasped. “Oh my God, what happened?”

His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He looked sick, his pupils tiny. He was wrapped in a bathrobe, and even from where I stood on the doorstep, I could smell the body odor on him. Body odor and liquor.

“Are you hungover?”

“What do you want, Oliver?”

I gaped at him. He hadn’t shaved in goodness knew how long. “What do I want? We’re f*cking worried about you! Your dad called Cleo, Thomas. Your dad! And here you are getting your f*cking drink on? Now you’re asking me what I want? I thought you were hurt. I thought you were dead, you *!”

His gaze softened for a moment, in a way that was so familiar, so dear to me now. The corners of his eyes went up a little, crinkled at the edges with his laugh lines. His sooty lashes lifted and cast shadows on his sharp cheekbones. And just like that the softness was gone. “Well, as you can see, I’m fine. So you can call everyone and tell them to leave me alone.”

He was about to slam the door in my face, and I stopped it with my palm, which was a bad idea. It jarred my wrist something fierce, but I was too angry to care.

“Oh, no, you don’t. I’m coming in and I am shoving you in the shower. You stink. I’m going to pour away all your liquor and make you breakfast. You’re going to call your dad and apologize in person. You think he hasn’t been worried sick? I expected better from you, Thomas.”

He hung his head, and instantly I felt like a total dick. I took his arm. The bathrobe was ridiculously fluffy, like a warm hug, but oh God, the smell. “Come on,” I told him gently. “Into the shower with you.”

And he came with me, meek as a lamb. I glanced into the small living room to the right of his ridiculously steep stairway and saw nothing but darkness and vague shapes of messiness. Up the steps we went, into his only bathroom, where dirty laundry had been left lying on the floor. I turned on the shower to heat, set him down on the closed toilet lid, squirted some toothpaste on his toothbrush and handed it over. Without a word, he accepted it and began to brush. I lifted his feet and took off his socks. He didn’t look at me, barely seemed to notice I was there, and again my stomach lurched with worry. Was he on something? Was he drugged up?

“Come on, spit in the sink and rinse your mouth.”

He was so far gone, I didn’t trust him not to step into the shower with his robe on. So I took it off him and managed valiantly to keep my eyes above nipple level.

“Don’t forget to wash your hair,” I told him, and handed him a loofah and his bottle of bodywash. He met my eyes for a second. He tried to smile at me, but his mouth quivered. “You’ll be okay,” I said. “It hurts now, I know. But it will be okay.” He nodded and put some soap on his loofah, so I was confident he could take it from there.