You’ve Reached Sam: A Novel

I’ve been working at Mr. Lee’s bookstore for almost three years now. It is a relic of a place, filled with leather-bounds, rare foreign books, and collectables, and has been around for two generations despite more people shopping online these days. It is the last bookstore in town. I found it by accident the first week I moved here. The store is nameless with no storefront signs outside. The only indication are the books stacked in spiral towers in the windows. Many of our customers wander in out of curiosity.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how long the job would last when I applied. Every time I turn that corner on my way to work, I worry I’ll find the lights off and the CLOSED sign unturned at the door. I’m surprised Mr. Lee still manages to keep us around when there’s so little to do. I can’t thank him enough for his kindness.

The crystal wind chime jangles against the glass door as I come in. It’s the next day, and I decide to stop by after school to check in on things. After a week of radio silence on my end, it’s time. When I step inside, it feels like I’ve gone through a portal. Light bulbs hang from strings at different heights in the air, blinking occasionally. The place looks small from the outside, but the sixteen long rows of hand-painted bookshelves that nearly touch the ceiling make the store seem massive.

The store looks empty at first. More quiet than usual. Then I hear the struggling of a box being torn open, followed by the ripping of tape, then the sound of several books tumbling onto the floor, and someone’s voice.

“Oh geez.”

I figured Tristan would be working today. I follow the voice and find him crouched down in the back of the fantasy section, mumbling to himself, picking up fallen books. I kneel down to help him out.

“Need a hand?”

“Huh? Ouch—”

Tristan turns too fast, bumping his head against the bookshelf ladder.

“Oh my god—are you okay?”

“Yeah, totally fine.” Tristan winces, smiling through some pain. He blinks at me with recognition. “Julie? When did you get here?”

“Just a second ago,” I say as I check his forehead. “Maybe we should put something on that.”

Tristan waves it off. “No, really, I’m fine,” he says again, and laughs a little unconvincingly. “It happens to me all the time around here.”

“That worries me a little.”

“Don’t worry! It’s only a bump.”

After we stack the books together, I help Tristan to his feet. He straightens up and runs his hand a few times through his brown curls, even though they bounce right back. It’s a nervous tic of his.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I say.

“You didn’t scare me,” he says, dusting his sleeves off. “I was little surprised, that’s all. Didn’t know you were coming in today.”

“I felt like checking in. I know it’s been a while.” I glance around the store for changes. But it’s exactly as I left it. I turn to Tristan. “Sorry for leaving you guys out of the blue. I heard you volunteered to take over my shifts. I never thanked you.”

“Oh, no need to thank me. I mean, I’m glad I could help.”

Besides Mr. Lee, it’s only me and Tristan working here. If one of us is sick, the other one is responsible for their hours and closing the store. We rely a lot on each other, especially around finals when we have to coordinate our exam schedules. I hate that I sprung an entire week on him without a word. Tristan is a junior, so we never have class together. The first time we spoke was when we both sat down with Mr. Lee during our interview for this job. Mr. Lee said he was impressed with our knowledge of books and chose us specifically for the genres we read most. He noticed I’m well-read in young adult and literary fiction, and praised Tristan’s expertise in science fiction and fantasy. We later learned we were the only ones who even applied.

“I still feel guilty,” I say.

“You shouldn’t,” Tristan says, shaking his head. “You should take off however much time as you need. I like being here. So don’t feel bad.”

The wind chimes jingle, letting us know a customer has come in. Tristan looks over his shoulder, and runs a hand through his hair. He whispers, somewhat carefully, “So how are you doing, by the way? I’ve been wanting to reach out, but I wasn’t sure if it was too soon, you know? I’m sorry about what happened to Sam. Things must be hard right now…”

I stare at the floor, wondering what to say. Ever since Sam picked up, it’s as if the whole world flipped again, and I’m no longer sure how to respond to these questions. How do you bridge grief and hopefulness, without having someone take it the wrong way? Without hinting at your secret? “I’m just taking it one day at a time…”

Tristan nods. “That makes sense…”

The wind chime jingles again. I use this momentary distraction to change the subject. I run a hand along the shelves. “Anyway, how’s the store been?”

“Pretty good,” Tristan says, understanding. “Actually, you should see this.” He takes my arm, pulling me to another section of the store. A woman and her son are perusing some used books by the front window. Tristan smiles at them. “Let me know if you guys need anything,” he says.

We arrive at science fiction, his favorite section.

“Look—the entire Space Ninja series, collector’s edition,” Tristan says, showing me the shelf he’s been working on. “They only have fifty of them in the world.”

“Oh, wow.”

Tristan opens up the book with careful hands. “It has a holographic map of the entire NexPod Galaxy. Isn’t that cool?” He turns the page. “Here’s a picture of Captain Mega Claws—also holographic. If you tilt it a little, his claw moves.”

“It’s beautiful.” I touch the holographic paper as it glimmers. “Looks expensive, though.”

“It’s already sold.”

“Oh—so why is it still here?”

“I still have to ship it,” he explains. “Someone bought it online.”

“We’re online?”

“Only since last week,” Tristan says. “We have an online store now and everything. It’s really expanding our customer base.”

“That’s amazing. And Mr. Lee is okay with it?”

“Of course. He even asked me to update our Facebook page. And we have a Twitter now, by the way.”

“Do people still use that?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Interesting.”

Tristan returns the book to the shelf. “I also reached out to the author, Steve Anders. I asked him to come do a signing here and got a response.”

“Oh my god. When’s he coming?”

“He’s not,” Tristan says, frowning. “His publicist said they’ve never even heard of Ellensburg.”

“Most people haven’t,” I say with a sigh. “At least you tried.”

“Yeah. That’s what Mr. Lee said.”

The wind chimes jingle again, bringing in another customer. It’s always great to see people come into the store, even if they don’t buy anything. After a quiet moment, I catch the scent of sage and tea leaves. A calm energy embraces the store. I turn to see the back room’s door propped open, and Mr. Lee standing beside Tristan, a hand on his shoulder. He has that tendency to appear as if from nowhere.

“Good afternoon, Julie.”

“Mr. Lee…” is all I get out. I was hoping he would be here today. I feel a pang of guilt in my chest for not reaching out sooner, but I know he understands. No one knows this, but Mr. Lee was with me the day I found out Sam died. In fact, it was right here in this store when I got that phone call from Mika in the morning. Mr. Lee picked me up off the floor, closed down the bookstore early, drove me to the hospital, and waited to bring me home. He always loved having Sam around.

Mr. Lee said he “brought in good luck.”

“What did I bring in?” I once asked him.

“You brought in Sam.”

“The books missed you,” Mr. Lee says with a lift of a hand. While someone else might find his words strange, I’ve grown accustomed to how he imbues personalities into the books of the store, bringing them to life. For instance, when a new book would come in, he’d say, “We’ll need to find this one a home.” It always makes me smile.

“I’ve kept them in my mind,” I say.

He nods. “I had a feeling you were stopping by,” he says. “Perfect timing. There’s something I would like you to see.”

We leave Tristan with the customers as we head to the back office. The room is behind a secret bookcase that isn’t really a secret. Every time I step through it and follow the blinking string of lights and paper ornaments along the ceiling, I feel like Alice stepping through the looking glass.

The room is filled with stacks of brown boxes, each filled with various books we either don’t have a place for yet or just haven’t sorted through. Mr. Lee asks me to wait here while he disappears inside the little office in the corner. When he returns, he’s holding a book I don’t recognize right away.

“I found this in last week’s donation box. Take a look—” He hands it to me.

I run my hand over the cover. It is a beautiful brown clothbound, soft to the touch, with embroidered floral patterns that appear dusted with gold with nothing written on top. Maybe the book sleeve is missing. I skim through some pages in search of the title. But everything’s blank.

“It’s a notebook,” Mr. Lee says. “Quite a beautiful one, don’t you agree?”

“It is…” I whisper, admiring the quality of the pages. “I can’t believe someone gave this away. It hasn’t even been used yet.”

“I immediately thought of you,” he says, and points to the old computer on the back table. “I’ve noticed you stealing paper from the printer to write on. So I figured you might appreciate this gift. Who knows … maybe if you change the medium in which you wrote, it might inspire something.”

“I was only borrowing the paper,” I say.

Mr. Lee chuckles and waves it off.

I look down at the notebook. “I can have this?”

“As long as you make good use of it,” Mr. Lee says with a nod. “I think of it as an investment.”

“How so?”

“You see—once you finish your book, we can put it on the shelves, right in the front of the store,” he explains. “And I can tell customers she wrote it here, you know? In the journal I gave her.”

I smile as I hold the journal close to me. Mr. Lee is always encouraging me to write more. “Use your time at the store. Talk with the books for inspiration. They’re full of ideas.” Sometimes I share my stories with him to get his thoughts. Unlike my English teachers at school, Mr. Lee is well versed in the world of literature and always finds beauty in my words. He understands what it is I’m trying to say even when I’m not sure myself. “I don’t know if I could write a whole book, though,” I admit. “I’m having trouble just thinking lately. I’m not sure what to write about anymore.”

“What have you been thinking about?” he asks.

I run my hand along the spine of the journal. “Everything, I guess. My life. What’s happening in it.” And Sam, of course.

“Then write it down. Write down what’s happening.”

I look at him. “Mr. Lee, nobody wants to read about my life.”

“Who are you writing for again?” Mr. Lee asks, arching a brow. He has asked me this before. I know the answer he wants to hear. I write for myself. I’m not sure what this really means, though. I can’t help caring about what people think, especially about my writing. “We have too many voices inside our heads. You have to pick out the ones that mean something to you. What story do you want to tell?”

I stare down at the journal, thinking about this. “I’ll try, Mr. Lee. Thank you for this. And I’m also sorry for not letting you know I was gone—”

Mr. Lee holds up a finger to stop me. “No apologies necessary.” He opens the bookcase door and gestures toward the store. “The books welcome you back.”

I always feel at home when I’m in the store. I could spend hours and hours in here. There’s a comfort in being surrounded by walls of books. But as nice as it is to be back, Sam is waiting for me. We planned to make another call today. But this time, he asked me to meet him somewhere new for us to talk. He said he wanted to show me something.

I had just made it out of the bookstore when the wind chimes went off again, followed by the sound of Tristan’s voice.

“Julie! Wait!”

I spin around to see him with his hand extended, holding my phone.

“You forgot something.”

A gasp escapes me. “Oh my god—” I grab the phone and press it tight against my chest. My heart is pounding as thoughts of what if flash through my head. What if I lost it? What if I couldn’t call Sam back? How could I be so careless? How could I forgive myself? I make a promise to never do this again. “Thank you so much,” I say breathlessly.

“No problem,” Tristan says. “You left it on the front counter.”

“You’re such a lifesaver.”

Tristan laughs. “What would we do without our phones, right?”

“You honestly have no idea, Tristan.”

I breathe relief and smile as I wait for him to head back inside. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, a bit awkwardly.

“Was there something else?”

Tristan scratches the back of his head. “Sort of. I mean … I forgot to mention something earlier.”

“What is it?”

“It’s about the film festival. Spring Flick? My film was accepted. I wanted to tell you,” he says.

“That’s incredible, Tristan! Congratulations. I knew it would be.”

Spring Flick is part of the annual Ellensburg Film Festival that takes place at the university. It’s one of the biggest events in town. Tristan and his friends submitted a short film in the high school category. They spent the last six months filming a documentary on Mark Lanegan, the alternative-rock musician from Ellensburg. Sam was a huge fan.

“It’s next month, a few weeks before graduation,” Tristan goes on, running a hand through his hair. “I have an extra ticket. You mentioned you wanted to go last time, if the film was accepted. Did you still want to?”

The word graduation catches me off guard, and I nearly panic. Is it really only two months away? I haven’t even heard from colleges yet. And I’m so behind on school, what if I don’t catch up in time? I become so lost in thought, I forget what Tristan even asked me. I must take too long to respond, because his face flushes, and his voice stammers. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought this up this soon. You probably have a lot on your mind right now. I should go back in—” He turns toward the store.

“Wait,” I call him back. “Of course. I’ll go.”

“Really?” he asks, suddenly beaming. “I mean, okay. Okay, great. Cool. I’ll tell you more about it soon. And, you know, let me know if you change your mind. That’s cool, too.”

“I’ll be there, Tristan,” I say as I turn to go.

Tristan stands at the door, waving, as I cross the street and disappear around the corner.

Cherry blossoms fall at my shoes as the bus drops me off at the university entrance. The brick tower of Barge Hall rises behind the trees as I look around. The paths throughout campus are covered with pink and white petals. There is a stream of water that runs beside the library. I cross a bridge to get to the other side. As I cut across the grass, branches drop petals on my hair and shoulders. A small breeze twirls them in the air as I keep walking. When the trees blossom in the spring, central Washington feels like a place from a dream.

The Sakura festival happens once a year, and people from all over Washington come to see it. Sam and I would take the bus here all the time when the weather was warm. It is a beautiful stroll along the university paths. This is the first I’m seeing them this year. I breathe in the scent, and remember the two of us walking together, Sam’s hand in mine.

Sam stops to sniff the air. “This really takes me back…”

“Is it close?” I ask.

He looks at me. “To what?”

“To the cherry blossoms in Japan.”

Sam takes a good look around. “That’s like comparing a lake to the ocean. You know what I mean? It’s not close at all.” He just returned from a trip to Kyoto to visit his grandparents and attend the Sakura festival there. He said it was a family trip …

I fold my arms. “Thanks again for the invitation.”

“I told you.” He laughs as he takes my hands. “We’ll go this summer after graduation. I promise. You’re gonna love it there. It’ll be like nothing you’ve ever seen.”

“Nothing like Ellensburg?”

“Different worlds.”

I smile and kiss his cheek. “I can’t wait.”

“So how are the blossoms this year?” Sam’s voice over the phone pulls me back.

I called as soon as the paths cleared and it’s only us out here.

“They’re beautiful,” I say. I look up at the trees that line the paths, listening to the stream of water running somewhere up ahead. “But nothing like the ocean, right?” Sam doesn’t answer, but I sense him smiling on the line. “Why did you ask me to come here again?”

“It’s our tradition,” Sam says. “To walk through here every spring, remember? I realized we never got to see them this year. And it made me a little sad. I didn’t want you to think I forgot. So I figured I’d bring you here one more time, while I still can.”

“But you’re not here,” I remind him.

“I know.” Sam sighs. “But pretend I am. Just for a second. Right there, beside you, like before…”

I close my eyes and try to imagine this. A breeze moves across my face but nothing changes. You should have let me come with you last time. This can’t make up for it. “It’s not the same, Sam. Not at all…”

“I know. But it’s the best I could do right now.”

A couple holding hands walks past me, reminding me of what’s missing. The touch of a hand. The warmth of skin. The sense of him beside me. Even though I’m connected to Sam again, he’s not really here, is he? I squeeze the phone tight and push this thought out of my mind and keep walking. I was worried about being out in the open like this and running into someone. Sam told me I shouldn’t tell anyone about our calls because he doesn’t know what might happen. I don’t want to take any risks, so I promised to keep our connection a secret for now. When the campus has cleared a little, I find an empty bench away from the path and sit down.

“So what’s it like at school?” Sam asks. “Is everything … different?”

“You mean, without you there?”

“Yeah.”

“I guess so,” I say. “I’ve only been back a few days. But I hate that you’re not there anymore. I don’t like sitting beside an empty chair, you know?”

“Are people talking about me?”

I think about this. “I don’t know. I don’t really talk to anyone.”

“Oh … Okay.”

There’s something in his voice. A note of sadness? “I’m sure people still think about you, though,” I add. “They have photos of you in the front office and in some of the hallways. I always see them when I come in. People haven’t forgotten you, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Sam says nothing. I wish I knew what he was thinking. As I sit there in silence, thinking about people from school, a question comes to me. “Are you talking to anyone else, Sam?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, on the phone. Like this.”

“No. Only you.”

“How come?”

Sam takes a moment. “You’re the only one who called me.”

I consider this. “Does that mean if someone else had called you, you would have picked up for them, too?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why is that?”

“Because our connection is different,” he says. “And maybe I was waiting for your call. In a way.”

“Could it be something else?” I ask.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know,” I say, suddenly thinking about it. “Maybe there’s something you’re supposed to tell me. Or maybe there’s something you need me to do…”

“Or maybe I wanted to pick up, and make sure you were okay,” Sam says. “Is that so hard to believe?”

I lean back against the bench and take this in. “How long do we have this for?”

“It won’t be forever. If that’s what you’re asking.”

I was afraid he would tell me this. I swallow hard. “So that means one day, you won’t pick up anymore?”

“Don’t worry. We would say good-bye first, okay? We’ll know when it’s going to happen before it does.”

“You won’t just leave again?”

“I promise, Julie. I’ll stay as long as I can.”

I shut my eyes for a moment and try to find comfort in this. I don’t ask Sam any more questions. I don’t want it to ruin this beautiful day. A breeze stirs petals along the grass. When I open my eyes, I look up through the branches and catch the sun glimmering like silver coins through the cherry blossoms.

“I wish you were here with me,” I whisper.

“I wish I were there, too.”

The sun has set by the time I get home. I was on the phone with Sam for so long, I lost track of the day. I wanted to call again once I got back to my room, but he said we should wait until tomorrow. This is probably for the best. Even though school is the last thing on my mind, I have so much work to catch up on. I’m so behind on all my readings, they’ve piled up on my desk. It’s a struggle to focus. I barely get through one chapter of my history book when a crack at the window jolts my head up. A second later, there’s another crack as a rock comes flying into the room, bouncing across the floor. I rush to the window and look out.

A tall figure moves across the driveway. A familiar one.

“Oliver? Is that you?”

Down below, Oliver stands in his letterman jacket, waving up at me.

“Hey—what’s up?”

I give him a look. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know, just passing by,” he says, shrugging casually. “Thought I’d say hi. Hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Oliver—you threw a rock at my window.”

“Right, my bad, that was totally rude of me…” he says, holding both hands in the air as if surrendering to something. He doesn’t seem to be going anywhere.

“Do you need something?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No. Not at all. I mean, maybe. Sort of … Yes? I mean no. I mean—”

“Just spit it out.”

Oliver drops his shoulders and sighs. “I wanted to ask if you wanted to go on a walk or something.”

“Right now?”

“I mean, unless you’re busy.”

“Kind of.”

“Oh…”

I don’t think that was the answer he was expecting. He looks around in the dark, a bit flustered.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Oliver shrugs. “No, it’s okay. I guess I’ll head on home then…” He half turns, facing the street as if he’s about to head off. But he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there frozen in this pose that looks like he’s about to leave. I wait a bit longer but nothing happens.

“You’re not leaving, are you?”

He drops his head, looking miserable. “I really need someone to talk to,” he says.

I glance at the schoolwork on my desk and then back at Oliver. “Okay, fine. I’ll be right down. Just don’t make any more noise.”

Oliver covers his mouth and holds up an OK sign.

A few minutes later, I find Oliver waiting for me on the porch steps, his hands in his pockets. It’s dark out. The moment I step into the porch light, Oliver’s eyes widen.

“Oh—uh, your shirt…” He stammers a little, and steps back.

It’s a bit chilly tonight, so I threw on Sam’s plaid shirt before I left my room without thinking about it. I wasn’t sure if he’d notice.

“I couldn’t find my jacket,” I say. I roll up the sleeves and cross my arms, trying not to bring attention to it. The two of us stand in silence for a while. “So where are we walking?” I ask.

“Nowhere really,” Oliver says. “Is that okay?”

“Sure.”

He smiles a little. In the porch light, I see him better. Dark brown hair curls across his pale forehead, not a strand out of place. I’ve always been envious of Oliver’s hair. The curls can’t be natural.

Oliver motions me down the steps. “After you.”

We walk along the lamplit sidewalks in silence. The only sounds are our footsteps on the concrete and the occasional passing car. Oliver stares straight ahead, his eyes distant. I don’t know where we’re heading or if that matters.

After a while, I decide to say something. “Are we going to talk at all?”

“Sure,” he says. “What’d you want to talk about?”

I stop walking. “Oliver … you asked me to come out tonight.”

Oliver pauses on the sidewalk without looking back. “True.” He glances up and down the street for cars. “This way,” he says and crosses the road. I follow him reluctantly. As we leave the neighborhood, I get the sense he’s leading us somewhere.

Oliver doesn’t look at me. He keeps walking. After a while of this, he finally asks me something. “Do you still think about him?”

I don’t need to ask who. “Of course I do.”

“How often would you say?”

“All of the time.”

Oliver nods. “Same.”

We cross the street again, avoiding the lights from town. Oliver drifts onto a gravel road I’m not sure we should be walking on. I follow him anyway, checking back and forth for cars.

“Have you checked Sam’s Facebook lately?” Oliver continues.

“No, I deleted mine recently. Why?”

“It’s really weird,” he says. “People are still writing on it. On his wall. As if he can still read it or something.”

“What are they saying?”

“Exactly what you’d expect them to say,” Oliver says, his jaw tense. “I can’t stand it. No one even uses Facebook anymore, you know? I don’t remember the last time I wrote on someone’s wall. Suddenly, he’s dead, and it’s flooded? I read through them all. It’s like they’re not even writing to him. It’s like they’re writing to each other. Trying to see who can grieve the most, you know?”

I’m not sure what to say. “People cope in different ways sometimes. You shouldn’t let it get to you.”

“It’s not different if everyone’s doing it.” He points across the road. “This way.”

It’s getting late but I don’t say anything. The town is somewhere behind us now, and I’ve lost track of how long we’ve been walking. I usually wouldn’t go this far out, especially at night. But Oliver’s with me. And I can tell he doesn’t want to be alone.

The temperature drops a little and I see my breath in front of me. But for some reason, I don’t feel cold. I keep my arms crossed and focus on the sound of the gravel crunching beneath my shoes, until Oliver suddenly stops and I almost bump into him. Then I look up and see the sign. Even in the dark, the bold white letters reflect the words.

LEAVING ELLENSBURG

We are standing at the edge of the city limits. A field of grass stretches out from the line of gravel that divides Ellensburg from the rest of the world. The air is still, the stars just beginning to show themselves. I look left and see the moon hanging low over the trees, lighting the tips of the grass that are slightly frosted from the cold, making it glitter like moonlight on water.

Oliver touches the line with his foot as I stand near his side, watching. He stares out into the distance for a while, hands deep in his pockets.

“Sam and I would come here a lot,” he says, almost wistfully. “I mean, we used to, anyway.” He looks at me. “Before he met you.”

I don’t say anything.

Oliver looks away. “You know … for a long time, I was mad at you.”

“For what?”

“For stealing my best friend from me,” he says. “I was always a little jealous, if you wanna know the truth. How he’d always leave me to go see you. And whenever we hung out, you were all he talked about.”

I look back at him, a flutter of laughter inside me. “That’s funny. Because I was always jealous of you for the same thing.”

Oliver smiles, and then stares out again. “Me and Sam made a lot of plans together, you know. To leave Ellensburg eventually. Whenever we got sick of this place, or one of us was having a bad day, we’d walk all the way here, and step over the line,” he says as he does it. “We always talked about finishing college at Central, and where we would go after. But that was before he made new plans with you.”

“And that’s why you always ignored me?”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” I say, and cross the line, too. “Maybe I wasn’t the nicest to you, either.”

After a moment, Oliver lets out a breath, his eyes glinting. “It really kills me, you know. That he never made it out of here. That this was it. That this line was as far as he got.” He shakes his head.

I swallow hard. “It hurts me, too.”

“I’m glad he met you, though,” Oliver says without looking at me. “I could tell you made him happy. The times you were together. At least he had that.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Don’t listen to any of them, by the way. The others who blame you. They don’t know anything.” I look away as he continues, “Sam really loved you, you know? If they knew him at all, they’d know how much he’d hate the things they’re saying. I’ll try to stop it if I hear anything.”

I don’t know what else to say. “Thank you.”

The two of us stare out at the grass in silence for a while. Then out of nowhere, Oliver says something, almost to himself or the moon. “I wish I could tell him one last thing.” Then he turns to me. “Do you think about that? About what you would say to Sam, if you had one more chance?”

I look down. He doesn’t know that I already have that chance. That I still have Sam. But I can’t tell him this. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

“Me, too.”

It’s getting late. But we stand there in silence, just thinking and staring out at the other side of the world for a few more minutes longer before we finally have to head back.

Once we reach my house, Oliver walks me to the front door. Before I head inside, I have to ask him, “So what would you say to him?”

Oliver stares at me, somewhat confused.

“I mean, to Sam. If you had the chance?”

“Oh, well, I—” he stammers. His mouth opens and closes, as if he’s forgotten how to speak. As if something is stopping him. Seeing him struggle like this, I touch his shoulder.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say.

Oliver breathes relief. “Maybe another time,” he says.

I smile and unlock the door.

“Do you think we can do this again?” Oliver asks.

“Go on another walk, you mean?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Or you know, hang out or something.”

I think about this. “I’d like that. But just knock next time. Or a text will do.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” he says. “Although I did text you. But you never responded.”

“When?”

“Earlier today. And yesterday, too.”

“You mean—more than once? That can’t be right.” I check my messages again to be sure. There’s not a single text from Oliver. Now that I think about it, there aren’t any new texts from anyone. Are they not coming through anymore? I’ve noticed this has been happening since I started talking to Sam a few days ago. “It might be my phone. It’s been acting strange lately.”

“That’s a relief,” Oliver says. “I thought you were ignoring me.”

“So you decided to show up and throw rocks at my window?”

Oliver holds back a grin. “What can I say … I’m annoying.”

“Maybe a little bit. Anyway, I should go inside.”

But before I do, Oliver leans in without a word and wraps his arms around me again. It’s a longer embrace than last time, but I let it happen. “Your shirt,” he whispers near my ear. “It still smells like him.”

“It does.”

We say good night. I close the door behind me and listen to Oliver linger on the porch before he eventually makes his way down the steps. As I get ready for bed, I keep wondering what Oliver would say to Sam if he had the chance. I wonder if he will ever trust me enough to share it. Or maybe it’s something I might have already known.