It isn’t until after I’ve finished my cereal, cleaned off the couch in the basement, filled an entire trash bag with food wrappers, cleared out all the dishes and glasses from next to my bed, and done every conceivable chore I can think of that I have the balls to call him back.
The phone rings for so long I’m not even sure he’ll pick up, rightfully pissed at me after my months of ignoring him.
But he’s Sam, so even though I don’t deserve it, he answers.
* * *
Sam drains his whiskey, then picks up the flask to peer at it, his face curious. I watch him, taking in the tired look around his dark eyes, the patchy five-o’clock shadow that I’ve literally never seen on his face.
Normally, I’d tease him about it, but he’s been all one-word answers since he got here fifteen minutes ago, no matter what I say.
My conversational skills are clearly tanking hard after an entire summer alone.
“What, uh, made you decide to stick around here?” I ask, nodding to the blue-and-gray T-shirt he’s wearing, from the local community college. I know he got into a few state schools, so I’m not sure what exactly changed his mind.
He raises one of his eyebrows at me, and I see something I’ve only rarely seen in our lifetime of being friends.
Mad Sam.
“Things haven’t exactly been rainbows and sunshine for me, dude. One of my best friends died and the other dropped off the face of the earth,” he says. After a beat, his expression softens. “I had no idea what was going on with you. I had to keep checking with your mom.”
I take a long sip of the whiskey, my throat burning, but it helps the words come easier. “I’m sorry, Sam,” I say.
And I am. But I owe it to him to be honest.
“I know I was a shitty friend, but I just… couldn’t. I couldn’t be around you. I couldn’t be around anybody. Sometimes I think maybe I still can’t.”
I feel his eyes appraising me. “You look like shit,” he says finally, gesturing to my wrinkled shirt, overgrown hair, weirdly curly beard.
I shrug, not particularly caring what I look like. Kimberly isn’t here to see me. She was always the one who’d tell me that I looked like an animal if I wore sweats to school. That maybe there were clothes other than gym shorts. What does it matter now if I shave or brush my hair or wear a clean shirt? What did it matter then, if my ass was always going to end up here?
“Well.” Sam sighs, and the last of his anger seems to roll off his shoulders. “I’m glad we didn’t lose you, too, even if you do look like shit,” he says as he tips the flask in his hand and pours more into his glass.
He grins and nods to the flask. “How’d this make it through customs?”
“Found it in the bags from the hospital,” I say, nodding to the closet where my mom moved everything after disposing of my bloody and tattered suit. “Mom must’ve missed it.”
I know I could take the out. Keep the conversation here on whiskey and bullshit. But his words are still in my ears. Something about them feels wrong.
“You’re glad you didn’t lose me, too,” I repeat, shaking my head. “Sometimes I wish it had been me. Sometimes I feel like I’m waiting for her to walk right through that door.” I look across the hallway to the couch, the empty gray cushion. “Waiting for things to go back to normal.”
Sam’s face gets serious, just like it used to when he’d start the chant in our football huddles before a big play. “Me too,” he says, his voice firm. “That’s why we can’t forget her. We have to stick together because we’re the only ones who will keep her memory alive. That’s what Kim would’ve wanted.”
What Kim wanted. I used to think I knew what that was better than anyone. But I didn’t. Sam did.
I think about all the conversations that happened behind my back. How he knew how she really felt. What she really wanted.
“How long did you know?” I ask him. “About Berkeley?”
He pauses, but instead of answering, he hangs his head. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“Yeah,” I say simply. But I think of what Kim said in the car about breaking up. About her going to Berkeley. Would you have let me?
Did he think that too?
He watches me for a long moment, and when he realizes I’m not going to explode, he continues. “I know that night was bad, but she loved you. You have to remember that.”
I let those words sink in, making my head swim more than the alcohol. The “loved” past tense is still just as jarring as it was that night. And it’s too much to unpack right now.
Sam doesn’t stay much longer. We move to safer territory, talking about his plans for this semester, the upcoming UCLA football games, even though I haven’t had it in me to catch up on any preseason coverage.
And then, as he leaves, I promise to not be an asshole and text him more.
But after the door closes behind him, I find myself reopening it a few minutes later and stepping outside, a light chill in the late-summer air. It takes me a second to realize I’m walking to the pond, the half-finished whiskey flask in tow as I limp along the path to the park. I sit at the water’s edge in the shade of one of the huge looming willows, looking out as the afternoon sun reflects off the surface of the water and sends twinkling light all across it.
Gently, the wind blows, tugging at my hair and bringing with it a voice. A whisper. The words are too soft to make out.
I look around, trying to find the source, but this time I’m not surprised when I’m met with nothing—just the green grass around the pond, the trees lining the shore, and a feeling I can’t shake. What Sam said keeps running circles in my mind, like laps after a confiscated bag of peanuts.
I’m not worried about forgetting her. I never could. But how the hell am I supposed to know what she’d want me to do? How she’d want me to be without her?
The voice fades with the breeze, and I run my hands through my hair, wondering how I can possibly stand on my own when I feel so damn unsteady.
8