An hour passes and the page remains blank. Maybe I should try reading instead, at least for inspiration. The yearbook sits beside me. I tried to leave it at the diner earlier, but the waitress followed me out and nearly threw it at my head. The cover is a tacky gray-and-blue design. I skim through some pages. Club and sport photos take up a good portion, but I skip through them entirely. Next are senior favorites, class clown and best friends, that I didn’t care to see who won. There were several people from our class who went around campaigning. A little embarrassing, if you ask me. The next section is senior portraits, but I don’t feel like looking through them. I skim all the way to the end until there’s nothing left but blank white pages for people to write in. And then I realize someone did, there on the second-to-last page. I guess Mika must have found time to sign it before she gave it to me. But then I look closer at the handwriting and notice it isn’t hers. No, it’s someone else’s. It takes me a second to recognize it. But that can’t be right.
Sam. It’s his handwriting, I know it. But how did he get ahold of this? When was he able to write to me? I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it. I shouldn’t read this, at least not right now when I’m trying so hard to forget. But I can’t help myself, my hands start to shake.
His voice fills my head.
Hey.
Just to make sure I beat everyone to it, I wanted to write in this first. I hope that’s some more proof of how much I’m in love with you. I still can’t believe it. How did three years go by so fast? It feels like yesterday I was sitting on the bus behind you trying to build the courage to say something. It’s crazy to think there was a time before we knew each other. A time before “Sam and Julie.” Or “Julie and Sam”？ I’ll let you decide that one.
I know you can’t wait to leave this place, but I’m gonna miss it. I get it, though. Your ideas were always too big for a small town, and everyone here knows it. But I’m happy your path somehow made you stop in Ellensburg along the way. So you and I could meet each other. Maybe it was supposed to happen, you know? I feel like my life didn’t start until I met you, Julie. You’re the best thing to happen to this small town. To me. I realize it doesn’t matter where we’re going next, as long as we’re together.
I’ll be honest. I used to be scared of leaving home. Now I can’t wait to move on and make new memories with you. Just don’t forget the ones we made here. Especially when you make it big. And whatever happens, promise you won’t forget me, okay?
Anyway, I love you, Julie, and always will.
Yours forever,
Sam
Forever …
I shut the yearbook and stare out at the water as this sinks in.
A family of ducks has appeared on the other side of the lake. I watch them make tiny rings in the water, and listen to a breeze stir leaves from the branches behind me, as the full weight of Sam’s words echoes through me.
It’s been one week since Sam died. And in my attempt to move on, I’ve been trying to erase him from my life like a terrible memory. After everything we’ve been through together. I threw out all of his things. I skipped his funeral. And I never even said good-bye. In his death, Sam asked for only one thing, and that was for us to remember each other. Yet here I am trying so hard to forget.
A shiver goes through me as the first clouds begin to appear. The chill from this morning returns as I sit unmoving on the bench, watching long shadows appear on the surface of the lake, as this sudden feeling of guilt sinks into my bones. I don’t even know how much time has passed since I sat down. But the next thing I know, I’m on my feet again, dashing back toward town.
The farmers market is packing up as I cut through it—it’s a flash of falling produce, toppling bread loaves, and turning heads. I don’t care who I bump into as I make my way down the neighborhood streets toward home. By the angle of the sun and the still traffic, it must be late afternoon. The garbage truck that makes its rounds probably came by hours ago. But schedules often change, and things run late, and somewhere by the curb the box of Sam’s things might still be there.
As soon as I turn the corner and my house is in view, I look for the curb and realize it’s gone. Everything. All of Sam’s things. I nearly stumble as this heavy, sinking feeling falls over me, like water filling my chest, and I forget how to breathe.
I run inside the house and check the kitchen. The counters are empty. I search the living room in the chance that my mother had saved me from making a horrible decision, and brought some of Sam’s things back inside. But nothing’s here.