“It was nice to be back. Feels like home, you know?” I say. “And Mr. Lee is fine. He gave me this journal the other day. I forgot to tell you. It’s almost too beautiful to write in.”
“So you’re writing again?”
“I’m starting to. Today, at least.” That was why he brought me to the fields. To inspire me again. I wanted to surprise him with this, but I’m no good at holding things in. “Actually, I’m writing about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
Sam laughs. “What’s it about?”
“You know, I’m still figuring that out,” I admit. “I just started! But I’m really enjoying it. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten into that rhythm of writing, you know? I want it to be about us, though. Our story, I mean. I started writing down some of our memories. Little vignettes. I just have to figure out how to stitch them together. Into something meaningful.”
“I’m glad you found your rhythm. And glad I made it into one of your stories. Finally.” He laughs. “What’s this for again?”
I let out a breath. “I’m not sure yet. I was just getting into the practice of things, you know? But if it turns out well, I might use it as my writing sample for Reed. Apparently, they need to look at one before I’m allowed into their creative writing classes. Not that I’ve been accepted yet, but I don’t want to get into that right now. Anyway, who knows? If it ends up being really good, maybe I can try to get it published or something. It’s something to work toward, you know? Get one of my stories out there. Like Tristan.”
“What about Tristan?”
“I forgot to mention. His documentary was accepted to the film festival.”
“Oh.”
“He invited me to the premiere.”
A silence.
“That’s nice … For both of you.”
I turn my head to the side, trying to read his tone. “Both of us? I haven’t accomplished anything. I barely have an idea for a story.”
“You still have time, though. To write it. And leave something behind. I wish I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I wish I had time to finish things, too, you know? Leave on mark on the world or something…”
“What did you want to finish?”
Sam lets out a breath. “It doesn’t really matter anymore, Jules … There’s no point in talking about it.”
“But Sam—”
“Please. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
An ache of guilt goes through me. I thought sharing this would make him happy. I’m writing a story about us, after all. I didn’t expect this to bring up feelings he won’t even talk about. So I change the subject, just as he asked.
“I saw Oliver today. He really misses you.”
“Oliver?” Sam’s voice brightens at the name. “I’ve been thinking about him lately. How has he been?”
“He brings you flowers,” I tell him. “I found out he sits by your grave sometimes, to keep you company. He really is a great friend.”
“We were best friends. Since forever.”
“He said he loves you…” I say.
“I love him, too. He knows that.”
For a second, I think about asking him what he means. Ask whether or not there was something more to them than I knew. But I decide not to, because maybe it shouldn’t matter. At least, not anymore.
Sam asks, “Is this the first time you’ve seen him since?”
“No,” I say. “We’ve seen each other a few times, actually. We even saw a movie the other day. It was a musical. It happened out of the blue.”
“I always told you. You guys have a lot more in common than you know.”
“I’m realizing that. Guess I should have listened sooner.”
“Does that mean you’re friends now?”
“I think so. At least, I’m hopeful about it.”
“I’m glad you guys finally gave each other a chance,” Sam says.
I’m glad we did, too. If only it didn’t take losing you for it to happen.
Rain continues to tap against the patio roof. I’ll have to head back inside soon. Before I do, there’s a question I want to ask. Something that’s been burning in my mind for the past few days.
“What is it?” Sam asks.
“It’s about our calls. About having to keep this a secret. I was wondering, what would happen if I told someone?”