Patchwork Paradise(39)

I stepped out of the bathroom and fished my phone out of my pocket. “Cleo?” I said when she answered. I went into his bedroom, held my breath until I could yank open the curtains and the windows, then looked around, stunned. “I’m at Thomas’s.”

“Oh my God, is he okay?”

“I honestly don’t know. He’s definitely hungover, maybe still drunk, but he’s acting weird. I’m scared he might’ve taken drugs or something.”

“Weird how?” she asked, all businesslike, and I knew she’d snapped into nurse mode. “Is he shaking? Convulsing? Vomiting or losing consciousness?”

“What? No! He’s taking a shower right now. But he’s really spaced out. And his pupils were tiny. First he was really mad at me, and a little later he was all agreeable and quiet.”

Silence, then she softly said, “He probably didn’t do drugs. He’s probably sad, Ollie. Because what you’re telling me is exactly what you were like when Sam first died.”

“But nobody died,” I said stupidly. I remembered what I had just said to Thomas: “It hurts now, I know. But it will be okay.” Some part of me had recognized his grief for what it was, even if I hadn’t consciously realized it.

“No, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t just lose someone.”

“Okay,” I said. “If there are no drugs involved, I can deal with it.” The shower turned off, and I began my hunt for clean clothes—easier said than done. His suits and shirts were strewn all over the place, so at least I had hope he’d been going to work and wasn’t out of a job. Yet.

“Do you need me to come over?” Cleo asked.

“Not now. Maybe later. I’ll let you know.”

“Okay. And Ollie?”

“Yeah?”

“Take care of him, all right? He’s hurting and he’ll be vulnerable.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

I hung up, found a clean pair of boxers, some sweatpants, and a T-shirt. Not knowing what I’d find there, I turned back to the bathroom.

Thomas was staring at himself in the mirror. His towel hung off a pair of narrow hips, bones jutting out sharply on either side of a lovely six-pack. He’d lost some weight—not drastically so, but enough to make his muscles stand out even more. His reflection met my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I never meant for you to see me like this.”

“I think you’ve seen me worse,” I said, holding out the clothes. He took them but didn’t put them on. I really wanted him to cover up because any second now my gaze was going to drift again, and he’d catch it.

“Yes, but you lost someone.”

I thought of what Cleo had said. “So did you. Come on.” I picked the T-shirt off the pile and pulled it over his head. His face was very close when he emerged.

“Not in the way you think,” he murmured and turned away to stick his arms through the sleeves. When he picked up the boxers, I spun around and left the bathroom.

His small living room was in a right state. He might not’ve done hard drugs, but he’d done everything else under the sun. Tequila, wine, beer, vodka. I didn’t gather a single whiskey bottle, so at least I’d been right not to buy those whiskey blocks.

He came downstairs as I was pouring the last of it down the drain—not that there’d been much left to drain away.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, his cheeks flushed with what must’ve been embarrassment. “You’ve done more than enough for me already.”

I set the bottle of tequila next to the other empties, took his hands in mine, and really looked at him. “If it weren’t for the people taking care of me day in, day out after Sam died, I wouldn’t be here, Thomas. Let me give something back, okay? You’re hurting. I want to be here for you.”

His bottom lip quivered, and he broke our eye contact. I let him. “I made coffee. Want some?”

He sat down at his small, round, wooden kitchen table and nodded. I found mugs and sugar, but no milk since it’d gone bad. In fact, his fridge was pathetically bare. I’d have to go back on that breakfast I’d promised.

I left him alone with his thoughts for a bit, opened the curtains in the living room, tidied up the throws and pillows and laundry that had been left there too, and made my way upstairs, where I gathered more laundry and put in a load. I stripped his bed, then realized I didn’t want to invade his privacy any more than I already had and left it at that. I’d help him remake the bed later, if he wanted me to.

He had his head down on the table when I came back to the kitchen, and I ran my fingers through his hair. He’d kept it short, and I mourned a little bit. I’d never gotten to tug his long hair, and I found I wanted to. So I massaged his scalp instead, his hair damp and soft under my fingers, and he let out a helpless noise.

“Feels good,” he mumbled, rolling his forehead back and forth on his arms.

I crouched down beside him and kept carding my fingers through his hair. “One of the worst things after Sam died,” I said, “was being absolutely touch-starved. It was like going cold turkey off the best drug. I’d always had him there beside me, and I’d never had to do without someone to hold me. In my darkest hours, I thought it’d kill me.”