You've Reached Sam(47)

“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.

Behind the counter, there’s a pin board where Tristan and I leave notes for each other, laying out which tasks have been taken care of, along with what needs to be done next. Sometimes, we leave personal messages. I find a blue note card pinned over the checklist.

Hope you’re feeling better.

Left your ticket in the first drawer.

—Tristan

I check the drawer. Inside a gold envelope, I find my ticket to the film festival next month. I almost forgot about this. Tristan has been working on this documentary for months. It’s his second time submitting something to the festival, so it’s wonderful to see things finally come together. A part of me is a little envious of him. He’s not even a senior yet but his creative work is being recognized. Meanwhile I haven’t even started my writing sample yet. I try not to think of things this way, and compare myself to others, but sometimes it’s hard not to.

I find a pen and write a message back to him.

Thanks again for filling in.

And can’t wait to see your film!

—Julie

It’s starting to rain outside, so there are fewer customers than usual. At least our online store seems to be doing better. Tristan gave me a list of book titles to find and package. Mr. Lee will pick them up on Monday and ship them off to new homes. I finish my tasks early, and even find time to sweep the store. Once the place is empty, I grab my journal and sit at my spot by the window. The sound of rain always puts me in a mood to write.

Something about it that drowns out the rest of the world, clearing my mind.

I think back to the lunch table yesterday, when Yuki asked me what I was writing about. I told her I was writing about Sam. But I’m not sure what it is I want to say yet. What do I want to tell the world about him? I imagine what some people might expect from me. Write about his death. About what happened. About what it meant to lose him. But that’s not something I want to focus on. Because I don’t want to remember Sam as a tragedy. I don’t want that to be his story. When people think about Sam, I want them to think of his best moments. I want them to remember him as a musician, staying up late on a school night, writing music on his guitar. I want them to know him as an older brother, building giant forts in his room. And I want them to remember us, and the last three years we spent together. How me met, our first kiss, all the reasons I fell in love with him. I want them to fall in love with Sam, too. Maybe that’s what I’ll do. Write down the memories of him. Memories of us. Tell our story. Once I decide this, moments from over the years flash across my mind. I spend the next hour jotting down the ones that mean the most to me. I keep writing until I completely lose track of time.