Patchwork Paradise(9)

“Oliver!” Cleo gaped at me. “You’re not thinking about giving up that place, are you?”

I shrugged, confused by this urge to shock her, hurt her almost. What was I doing? She was my best friend, and I wanted to make her feel bad. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to the house. We weren’t married yet. He had a will but . . .”

“Did he leave it to you in the will?”

“Yeah.” It was his, it had been ours, but it didn’t feel like it should ever be just mine.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Don’t go looking for trouble, Ollie. And, oh.” She sat there with her hands covering her mouth, eyes finally spilling over. “Your wedding day,” she whispered.

“Yeah.” I lifted my coffee, but my hand shook so hard it spilled over the rim. I carefully set it down again. “It would’ve been this Saturday.”

“I know. We got . . . we got the cancellation notice. Did you contact everyone? The caterers and stuff? Do you need me to do anything?”

I shook my head and looked away. I could see it in her eyes, the doubt and hurt that I hadn’t asked her for help, but I’d needed to do it all by myself. For once, Cleo didn’t press. We sat in silence and watched city life pass us by.

“Oh my God,” Cleo said, pointing toward the square. “Look at that.”

The benches placed around the Groenplaats were known for their homeless occupants during the day. On one of them, a disheveled, long-haired man with an unmistakable hard-on under his sweatpants was staring at a girl waiting for the tram. She didn’t know where to look. Poor thing was maybe twelve or thirteen. My heart began to hammer in my chest, and I’d half risen to my feet when I saw someone stride toward the pervert.

“Hey!” My back straightened, and a smile lifted my cheeks. “Isn’t that Thomas? Check him out!”

Cleo and I watched as Thomas ripped the guy a new one. He was too far away for us to overhear what he was saying, but his gestures and the man’s hasty retreat were obvious enough. Thomas went to the girl, crouched beside her without touching her, and asked her something. She nodded. He pointed to a policeman who was cycling up the street. She shook her head. He asked her something else. She nodded before she got on her tram.

By the time Thomas stood, Cleo and I had jumped to our feet, and we were cheering so loudly, he heard us. He gave us a quick smile. Then he saw who his audience was and bowed extravagantly. With a ridiculous swagger in his step, he walked up to us and bowed again when he stopped a few feet away from our table.

“A real knight in shining armor!” Cleo said, clapping her hands as she bounced. “What did you tell him?”

“You don’t want to know,” Thomas softly said. He always spoke pretty quietly. I’d liked that about him from the beginning. He wasn’t timid. It was . . . soothing. His eyes fell on me, and he sobered. “Hi.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “How are you?”

My heartbeat slowed. “Good,” I said, and was shocked to realize I meant it. For a whole two minutes I had been free of the weight of death.

Cleo glanced between us. She smirked and sat down. “Join us,” she said. “Want a drink?”

“Sure. Is that all right?”

I frowned at Thomas. “Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

He shrugged lightly but wouldn’t meet my eyes. I didn’t get it.

“Hey.” I put my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up. His dark eyes were a little bloodshot, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well. “I’m sorry I never returned your calls, okay? I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just . . .”

“Oh, I know that,” he said and offered me a half smile. “It’s fine.” He was wearing his hair loose today, and he dragged his fingers over his scalp, lifting the thick strands off his shoulders and back. In the sun, the brown gleamed with gold and red.

The waiter interrupted us. I watched Thomas flirt with him, feeling the sadness creep up on me all over again. Life went on after death, sure. It just went on a little faster for the others than it would for me.

When the waiter turned his back, Cleo lifted her phone off the table and said, “Oh, Imran wants to meet me for a late lunch.” I stared at her. There hadn’t been a message on her phone. “See you guys later, okay?”

“Cleo—” I began, but she gave me a little wave, kissed Thomas on the cheek, and darted away.

“What was that about?” I turned to Thomas, who was fiddling with a napkin.

“No idea.” He glanced at me, then went back to the napkin. “So . . . how have you been?”

How did I answer that? When I’d started accepting calls again the day before—from those who still bothered calling—I’d mostly fended off with a fake smile in my voice and an “Okay, all things considered.” But this was Thomas. One of my best friends. Still, this whole situation felt really awkward, and I had no clue why.

“It’s been a pretty shitty month,” I said. He met my eyes, and I grinned weakly. “All things considered.”

He snorted and shook his head lightly before he reached out and squeezed my arm. “I feel like I should’ve been there more,” he said. “But I had no idea how—”

“I know.” I patted his hand, and he let go. “It’s fine, really. I’m . . . heartbroken, obviously. And for the past month I’ve basically buried myself under my blankets. But I can’t go on like that.” That was what people expected me to say, wasn’t it?