“Mr. Lee doesn’t wear glasses,” I say.
“I know. I just think they look cool on him.”
We share a laugh as I set the box aside. “You know, you’re really transforming the place, Tristan.”
“Thanks. That’s what the books say. According to Mr. Lee, anyway.”
I look around the store, noticing all his personal touches. The posters, the bookmarks, the collectables in the sci-fi section that Mr. Lee moved up a row. Tristan even redesigned the store website, linking all the new social media accounts he’s been running. I hate to admit this, but I’m a little jealous of his creativity. He always sees things through. Maybe I should come up with some creative ideas, too. Imbue the store with my own personality, and help out Mr. Lee some more. I think about this as I go back to work.
Tristan hangs around the counter, arranging some things on the tray. When I catch him looking up at me a few times, I get the sense he wants to say something.
After a moment, Tristian coughs to get my attention. “So, uh, are you still coming tomorrow?”
I look at him. “What’s happening tomorrow?”
“The film festival.”
I hold back a gasp of surprise. “Oh—right, of course.”
“I also got you a wristband, for the after party,” Tristan says, scratching the back of his head. “It’s sort of exclusive, they said. Everyone’s been texting me about it, but I was only able to get one extra wristband. And I wanted you to have it.”
I smile at him. “That’s so sweet of you. But don’t feel you have to use it on me. Especially if so many people want to go.”
“No—I mean, what I meant is, I want to go with you.”
“Oh…”
“It would mean a lot to me if you came,” Tristan says, running a hand through his hair, his cheeks turning red. “There’s gonna be food and music and a bunch of people. It’s kind of fancy, but you don’t have to dress up if you don’t want to. I mean, I’ll be wearing a suit—because my mom already got it for me—and some of the other filmmakers might be, too, but you can, like, wear whatever you want.”
An after party? He never mentioned this before. I thought I would see his film, congratulate him afterward, and head off. Now there’s suddenly food and music and people getting dressed up? The way Tristan describes this makes it sound like a bigger commitment than I signed up for. Almost like a date or something. Maybe I’m overthinking this, but I am most certainly not ready for a date. What would Sam think? I sense my phone inside my pocket, and imagine how he might feel.
“So you’re coming, right?” Tristan asks again.
I bite my lip, unable to meet his eyes. It pains me to do this. But maybe this isn’t the right time. “I’m sorry, Tristan. But I don’t think I can go anymore.”
He blinks at me in surprise. “Oh—oh, that’s okay. I totally understand,” he says, forcing another smile. “I guess, maybe next time or something.”
I stand there as he grabs his tray and takes it to the back room without another word. Maybe I am overthinking the festival. I feel terrible for canceling on him at the last minute. But my connection with Sam has already started to crack. So I can’t take any more risks.
* * *
* * *
It’s feels like forever since I last spoke to Sam. It’s hard to focus or think about anything else except hearing his voice again. When I get home, I play the CD I always keep on hand, and pretend he’s there in my room, practicing his guitar. I’ve been doing this every day, letting his music fill my room like he’s alive again. It makes me feel less alone. There are fourteen songs, and I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve replayed them. The third track is my favorite. It’s one of his originals, a rock ballad, reminiscent of the Nicks era of Fleetwood Mac, and I get to hear Sam’s voice humming the melody. There are no words because the song is unfinished. Sam had asked me to help write the lyrics with him. We used to pretend we could be this great songwriting duo someday. Like Carole King and Gerry Goffin. I once asked him what comes first, the lyrics or the melody, and Sam answered, “Always the melody.” I disagreed with this, but I think that’s why our relationship worked. We were two parts of a song. He was the music. And I was the words.
I lay on the floor of in his room, looking at the ceiling, notebook paper scattered everywhere. Sam sits cross-legged beside me, his guitar in his lap.
“Play that again…” I say.