You've Reached Sam
Dustin Thao
TO MY PARENTS, GRANDMA, AND DIAMOND
PROLOGUE
The second I close my eyes, the memories play, and I find myself back at the beginning.
A few leaves roll in as he enters the bookstore. He wears a denim jacket, with the sleeves pushed up, a white sweater underneath. It’s the third time he’s come in since I started working here two weeks ago. His name is Sam Obayashi, the boy from my English class. I’ve been staring out the window throughout my shift, wondering if he’d come in again. For some reason, we haven’t spoken to each other yet. He just browses the store as I ring up customers and restock the shelves. I can’t tell if he’s looking for something. Or if he likes that feeling of being inside a bookstore. Or if he came to see me.
As I move a book from the shelf, wondering if he knows my name, I catch the glint of brown eyes through the gap, looking back at me from the other side. We’re silent for a moment too long. Then he smiles, and I think he’s about to say something—but I shove the book between us before he has the chance. I grab the crate beside me and hurry to the back room. What’s wrong with me? Why didn’t I smile back? After scolding myself for ruining the moment, I gather some courage to go back out and introduce myself. But when I return from the back room, he’s already gone.
On the front counter, I find something that wasn’t there before. A cherry blossom, made of paper. I turn it over in my hands, admiring the folds.
Did Sam leave this here?
If I hurry outside, I might still catch him. But as soon as I rush out the door, the street vanishes, and I find myself entering a noisy café on the corner of Third Street, nearly two weeks later.
Round tables pop up from a wooden floor as teenagers crowd around them, snapping pictures and drinking from ceramic cups. I’m wearing a gray sweater, slightly oversized, and my brown hair is pinned back and brushed smooth. I catch Sam’s voice before I see him, behind the counter taking someone’s order. The swoop of dark hair. Maybe it’s the apron, but he appears taller from behind the register. I head for a table on the other end of the café, and set my things down. I take my time as I spread out my notebooks, summoning up courage to approach him, even if it’s only to order my drink. But when I look up from the table, he’s there beside me, holding a steaming cup.
“Oh—” I’m startled by his sudden presence. “This isn’t mine.”
“Yeah I know, you ordered this last time,” Sam says, setting it down anyway. “A honey lavender latte, right?”
I stare at the cup, at the busy counter, and back at him. “Should I pay up there?”
He laughs. “No. I mean, it’s on the house. Don’t worry about it.”
“Oh.”
A silence between us. Say something, Julie!
“I can make you something else instead,” he offers.
“No, this is fine—I mean … thank you.”
“No problem,” Sam says through a smile. He slides his hands into his apron pockets. “Your name is Julie, right?” He points to his name tag. “I’m Sam.”
“Yeah, we’re in the same English class.”
“Right. Have you done the reading yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh good,” he sighs. “Me neither.”
Some silence as he stands there. He smells faintly of cinnamon. Neither of us knows what to say. I look around. “Are you on a break?”
Sam stares back at the counter, rubbing his chin. “Well, my manager isn’t in today, so I guess you could say that.” He adds a smirk.
“I’m sure you deserve it.”
“It would be my fifth one today, but who’s counting?”
We both laugh. My shoulders relax a little.
“Is it okay if I sit here?”
“Sure…” I slide my things out of the way, letting him take the chair beside me.
“Where did you move here from again?” Sam asks.
“Seattle.”
“I hear it rains a lot there.”
“It does, yeah.”
I smile as we sit together, talking for the first time, about school and the classes we’re taking and little things about ourselves—he has a younger brother, likes music documentaries, and plays the guitar. From time to time, his eyes dart around the room, as if he’s nervous, too. But after a few hours, we’re both laughing like old friends. Outside the sun lowers itself, turning his skin almost golden in the window light. It’s hard not to notice. It isn’t until a group of Sam’s friends come through the door, calling his name, that we both look up and realize how much time has passed.
A girl with long blond hair puts an arm around Sam’s shoulders, embracing him from behind. She glances at me. “Who’s this?”
“This is Julie. She just moved here.”
“Oh—where from?”
“Seattle,” I answer.
She stares at me.
“This is my friend Taylor,” Sam says, patting her arm that’s still around him. “We’re all about to see a movie. I get off work in an hour. You should come.”
“It’s a psychological thriller,” Taylor adds. “You’re probably not into that.”