“I’m glad they changed it!” he says, a edge in his voice. “It would have ruined the entire movie.”
“I agree with you. I’m only saying that another ending exists.”
“But it shouldn’t,” he says. “It doesn’t matter what they filmed before. Because Audrey lives.”
“Maybe in the movie. But in the play, she doesn’t.”
“Well then I won’t watch the play—” He walks off.
I follow beside him. I didn’t mean to ruin the film. “You know, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. Having different versions of something. At the end of the day, you get to decide what happened. So both can be true.”
Oliver turns to me. “That’s wrong. There can’t be two different versions of the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because one is the original, and the other is a copy. Something can feel the same or sound the same, but it isn’t the same at all. It’s inherently something else. So in order to have two different endings, you need two different Audreys.”
I think about this. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“I’m saying there’s only one of him, and that’s the one I knew. You can’t clone him or make different versions of him, and try to write a new him. You can’t make changes. Because there’s only one Sam.”
We are no longer talking about Audrey.
“Maybe you’re right. It was only a thought.”
We reach the corner that splits our path home. A hedge of white roses peeks over a fence beside us.
“Sorry to kill the mood again,” Oliver says.
“It’s alright. I get it.”
“Thanks for seeing the movie with me.”
“I’m glad I went.”
Before we part ways, Oliver notices the roses. He leans forward to touch one.
“Careful,” I say. “It might bite.”
He smiles as he plucks a rose from the hedge. For a second, I think he might give it to me. But he doesn’t. He just holds on to it.
“Heading home then?” I ask.
“Eventually,” he says. “Have to make a stop somewhere first.”
“Where?”
“Nowhere special.”
We say our good-byes. Back at home, I get started on schoolwork. I do as much as I can for the rest of the night, but it’s hard to focus. I can’t stop thinking about what Oliver said. About how you can’t have two endings to something. About how you could have multiple versions of someone, but only one can be the original. Maybe Oliver’s right. I don’t want a different version of Sam. I want the one I lost. The one I’m still somehow connected to, even though it’s only his voice over the phone.
I wish I could call Sam right now, but I know I shouldn’t. As much as I miss talking to him, I have a hundred things to focus on—schoolwork, graduation, getting my life back together. We have a phone call planned for tomorrow. He said he has another surprise for me. I fall asleep late, wondering where we’re going to meet next.
CHAPTER NINE
Sam’s voice comes to me in my sleep. It fills the crevices of my mind.
“Where are you, Julie …
… why can’t I find you?”
A lamp above me flickers on. I’m standing in a soft glow of light, surrounded by darkness. I can’t see anything around me. I can’t hear anything, except the buzzing of the lamp above my head. There’s a suitcase beside me. When mist moves across my shoes, I realize I’m dreaming again. A part of me is trying to wake up. The other part is curious to see a different ending.
And then my phone rings, as expected.
I feel around my pockets, but nothing’s there. I don’t know where my phone is. How am I supposed to answer?
The phone keeps ringing. I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I feel around the floor in case I dropped it.
Where is it? I’m running out of time.
Suddenly, a surge of light zooms through the darkness, blasting cold air at me, and my heart jolts. I rise up in time to see taillights, the sputter of smoke from a muffler, and the vanishing silhouette of a truck.
My throat closes as I stand there, watching. I know exactly where it’s heading. And I need to get there first. I have to get to Sam before it’s too late.
The suitcase falls over as I rush into the darkness, racing after the taillights. But it’s too fast for me. I’ll never reach it in time. Then I notice something. A rope tied to the back of the truck. I seize it at once, grabbing hold of it tight.