You've Reached Sam (46)

Some time passes. Oliver picks at the grass in silence. He hasn’t said anything in a while. I wonder what he’s thinking about. “Do you usually come here alone?” I ask him.

“Usually.”

“And you just sit here like this?”

“Sometimes I change the water in the vase.”

I stare at his rose again. I wonder how many flowers he’s given Sam. “You really miss him, don’t you?”

“Probably no more than you.”

We both look at each other. Then he looks away, and things go quiet again.

“I think Sam would be happy to know you visit him,” I say after a while. “I think it would mean a lot to him.”

Oliver looks up. “You think so?”

“I do.”

After a moment, he lets out a tense breath. “I just don’t want him to feel alone, you know?” he says. “Like, what if he needs some company? I want him to know that someone’s here.”

A pain shoots through me. I wish I could call Sam and let him hear this. I wish I could tell Oliver about our calls, just to give him some sort of peace. What would he even think? Would he believe me?

In almost a whisper, Oliver asks a bit nervously, “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes … I talk to him.”

“To Sam?”

Oliver nods.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, right here,” he says, gesturing at the grass where we sit. “Out loud, I guess. About normal things. Like stuff we used to talk about, you know?” Then he looks away, shaking his head. “It’s stupid, I know.”

If only he knew the truth. If only I could just tell him. “No, it isn’t,” I say to ease him. “I get it. If it makes you feel better, I tried calling him.”

“You mean, on the phone?”

“Yeah.”

For a second, I think he might ask me more about this, but he doesn’t. Though a part of me wishes he did. I wonder what my answer would have been. I watch Oliver pick at the grass again and feel a pang of guilt. Guilt for getting to talk with Sam, and not being able to tell anyone about it. Maybe I should. Just to know what happens next. Or for him to tell me this is real. Without looking up, Oliver asks me another question. “Can I tell you something else?”

I lean forward and listen.

“Remember what I asked you that one night? About what you’d say to Sam, if you had one more chance?”

“I do.”

“Do you want to know mine?”

“Only if you want to tell me.”

Oliver takes a deep breath and lets it out. His mouth opens and closes, as if something inside is stopping him. But eventually, he lets it out, like he’s been holding his breath for a long time.

“I would tell Sam I love him. That I always have.”

“I’m sure Sam loved you, too,” I say.

He looks at me. “But not the way he loved you.”

A silence.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “It’s better that I never told him. Maybe we’d stop being friends if I did.”

“Why would you say that?” I ask him. “You know Sam would be your friend no matter what.”

Oliver looks away again. “I always thought he might have felt the same way, too. That maybe there was something more between us, you know? Between me and Sam. Before you came here, I mean.” He drops his head. “I guess we’ll never know…” He goes quiet for a long time. When he wipes his eyes, and tears pour down, I realize he’s crying. Seeing him like this, my eyes start watering, too. I come behind, and put my arms around him. I rest my head on his back, and feel a pulse or heartbeat or I’m not sure what, but it’s someone else’s and not mine. Something I haven’t felt in a while.

“I wish he was still here,” Oliver says through tears.

“I know. I do, too.”

“You really think he’d still be my friend if I told him?”

“My honest answer?”

I feel him nod.

“I think Sam already knew.”

Judging from his silence, maybe he always wondered this. Maybe I’ve always wondered, too. About Oliver. Maybe this was the reason why he and I could never get close. Because of Sam. Because we both loved him in the same way. It’s the one thing we share now after he’s gone.

Out of nowhere, a breeze rolls through us and down the hill, sending pinwheels spinning as tree branches stretch to life for the first time since we got here. Oliver and I look up the hill as if expecting to see someone standing there, watching. But no one’s there. The sound of a hundred pinwheels turning is all we hear. Somehow, each one plays a different note, like wineglasses filled with water when you move your finger along the rim.

“Do you think that could be Sam?” Oliver whispers.

“It could be…” I move my ear in the direction of the wind, listening. “The song. It sounds familiar.”

Oliver tilts his head and listens, too. The two of us sit there in the grass in silence for a long time, trying to see if one of us can recognize the melody.



* * *



I walk Oliver home after we leave memorial hill. I wanted to make sure he was okay before heading to work. It’s my first shift since Sam died. I knew Tristan needed some time off, so I offered to come in this weekend. Since things are slow at the bookstore, there’s usually no need for the two of us to be here, so we rarely get a chance to work together. The only times we see each other are the moments we come in to switch shifts. It makes it hard to start our local book group we’ve been planning to promote at the store. We haven’t even decided on a first book yet. Tristan has been pushing The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, but I said everyone’s already read it. “It’s a book you have to read at least twice,” he keeps saying.