CHAPTER ONE
NOW
MARCH 7 11:09 P.M. Don’t bother picking me up anymore. I can walk home.
I did walk home. All five miles from the bus station, dragging an overstuffed carry-on with a broken wheel in the middle of the night. Sam kept trying to reach me. Twelve unread messages, seven missed calls, and one voice mail. But I ignored them all and kept walking. Reading these back again, I wish I hadn’t been so angry at him. I wish I had picked up the phone. Maybe then everything would be different.
Morning light comes through the curtains as I lay curled in bed, listening to Sam’s voice mail again.
“Julie—you there?” Some laughter in the background, and crackling from the bonfire. “I’m so sorry! I completely spaced. But I’m leaving now! Okay? Just wait there! Should only take me an hour. I know, I feel terrible. Please don’t be mad. Call me back, okay?”
If only he’d listened to me and stayed with his friends. If only he didn’t forget about me in the first place. If only he just this once let me be upset instead of always trying to fix things, no one would be blaming me for what happened. I wouldn’t be blaming me.
I play the voice mail a few more times before I delete everything. Then I climb out of bed and start upending drawers, looking for anything that was Sam’s or reminds me of him. I find photos of us, birthday cards, movie ticket stubs, paper blossoms, stupid gifts like the stuffed lizard he won at the town fair last fall, as well as every mix CD he made me over the years （who even burns CDs anymore?）， and cram them all into a box.
Every day these little reminders of him get harder to look at. They say moving on becomes easier with time, but I can barely hold a photo without my hands trembling. My thoughts go to him, they always do. I can’t keep you around, Sam. It makes me think you’re still here. That you’re coming back. That I might see you again.
Once I have everything collected, I take a long look at my room. I never realized how much of him I had lying around. It feels so empty now. Like there’s a void in the air. Like something’s missing. I take a few deep breaths before I grab the box and leave my room. It’s the first time this week I managed to get out of bed before noon. I only make two steps out the door before I realize I forgot something. I set the box down and turn back to get it. Inside my closet is Sam’s denim jacket. The one with the wool collar and embroidered patches （band logos and flags of places he’s traveled） along the sleeves that he ironed on himself. I’ve had it for so long, and wear it so often, I forgot it was his.
I pull the jacket from the hanger. The denim feels cold to the touch, almost damp. Like it’s still holding in rain from the last time I wore it out. Sam and I race down puddle-filled streets as bursts of lightning lit up the sky. It is pouring on our way home from the Screaming Trees concert. I pull the jacket over my head as Sam holds his signed guitar tight to his chest, desperate to keep it dry. We waited three hours outside for the band’s lead singer, Mark Lanegan, to come out and hail his taxi.
“I’m so glad we waited!” Sam shouts.
“But we’re soaked!”
“Don’t let a little rain ruin our night!”
“You call this a little?”
Out of everything I’m throwing out, this reminds me of him the most. He wore it every day. Maybe it’s all in my head, but it still smells like him. I never got the chance to give it back like I promised. I press the jacket against me. For a moment, I consider keeping it. I mean, why does everything have to go? I could shove it in the back of the closet, hide it beneath my coats or something. It seems like a waste to throw out a perfectly nice jacket, regardless of whom it once belonged to. But then I catch a glimpse in the mirror and come back to myself.
My hair unbrushed, skin more pale than usual, wearing yesterday’s shirt, cradling Sam’s jacket like it’s still a part of him. A chill of embarrassment goes through me, and I look away. Keeping it would be a mistake. Everything has to go, or else I’ll never be able to move on with my life. I shut the closet door and hurry back out before I change my mind.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I find my mother leaning over the sink, staring out of the window. It’s Sunday morning, so she’s working from home. The bottom step creaks under my foot.
“Julie—is that you?” my mother asks without turning around.
“Yeah, don’t worry.” I was hoping to sneak the box right by her. I’m not in the mood to have a talk about what’s inside. “What are you looking at?”