Luckily, our waitress reappears to take our order before this goes further. Mika looks at me, at the waitress, then back at me.
“Actually, I should go,” she says abruptly, and gathers up her things. Our waitress steps aside as Mika rises from the booth. She lays some money on the table, and turns to leave. “I almost forgot,” she says. “I picked up your assignments from school the other day. Wasn’t sure when you’d be back.” She unzips her bag. “Yearbooks also came. Ours were the last to get picked up, so I got yours, too. Here—” She drops everything on the table.
“Oh—thanks.”
“I’ll see you later.”
I don’t say good-bye. I just watch Mika disappear through the entrance door, ringing the bell behind her, leaving me alone again. The waitress offers to refill my coffee, but I shake my head. I suddenly can’t stand to be in here anymore, inside this noisy, cramped, syrup-stained diner that’s making me anxious. I need to get out of this place.
There goes my afternoon. I don’t know what else to do but wander outside again. I try not to think about Mika and what I should have said differently, because it’s too late. I walk through town, letting the caffeine kick in. At least the morning chill is gone. Shop windows glisten in the afternoon sun. I pass by without going inside. There’s the antique store. Sam and I used to go in and furnish our imaginary apartment together. I pause at the window. Through the dusty glass are long shelves crowded with paintings and figurines, floors swathed with Persian rugs and old furniture, among other things. Then despite myself, another memory comes …
Sam hands me a gift. “I bought you something.”
“For what?”
“Your graduation present.”
“But we haven’t even—”
“Julie, just open it!”
I tear off the wrapping. Inside is a silver bookend in the shape of a single wing, outstretched.
“Shouldn’t this be a set?” I ask. “Where’s the other piece? It’s missing.”
“I could only afford one at the time,” Sam explains. “But I just got paid. We can go back for it now.”
When we return to the antique store, the other half was already sold.
“Who on earth buys half a bookend?” Sam asks the woman behind the register.
I turn to him. “You.”
It became an inside joke for us. But it doesn’t matter anymore. I threw it out in the box with the rest of his things.
This town is full of memories of us. There’s the record store where I’d always find him when I got off work. The red door is propped open with a chair. A few people are looking through the aisles of old records. Someone is changing the strings of an electric guitar. But no Sam sitting on the counter by the speaker, adjusting the music. He didn’t even work here. He just knew everyone. I hurry off before someone sees me and tries to start a conversation I don’t feel like having.
I don’t know how much longer I can stand to be in Ellensburg. I’m tired of reliving these memories in my head. Graduation isn’t far away, I remind myself. Only a couple more months, and I’ll be out of here. I don’t know where exactly I’m heading yet, but it doesn’t matter as long as I never have to come back to this place.
* * *
I don’t remember how I ended up at the lake. It’s nowhere near town. In fact, there are no trails leading up to it, and no signs pointing toward it, meaning you have to go and find it yourself. From the long list of places I planned on avoiding today, this was the last spot I expected to end up.
A few leaves fall from a tree as I throw my things on the bench and sit, facing the lake. Sam and I used to meet here in the warmer months. It was our little escape from the world. Our secret getaway when we couldn’t afford to leave town. Sometimes, I would sit with a notebook, trying to write something, while Sam was out swimming. If I close my eyes, I can hear him paddling in the water, see the blades of his glinting shoulders cut across the lake. But then I open them and see the glassy, flat surface of the water, and find myself alone again.
Stop thinking about Sam. Think about something else.