“I’m glad he met you, though,” Oliver says without looking at me. “I could tell you made him happy. The times you were together. At least he had that.” When I don’t say anything, he adds, “Don’t listen to any of them, by the way. The others who blame you. They don’t know anything.” I look away as he continues, “Sam really loved you, you know? If they knew him at all, they’d know how much he’d hate the things they’re saying. I’ll try to stop it if I hear anything.”
I don’t know what else to say. “Thank you.”
The two of us stare out at the grass in silence for a while. Then out of nowhere, Oliver says something, almost to himself or the moon. “I wish I could tell him one last thing.” Then he turns to me. “Do you think about that? About what you would say to Sam, if you had one more chance?”
I look down. He doesn’t know that I already have that chance. That I still have Sam. But I can’t tell him this. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”
“Me, too.”
It’s getting late. But we stand there in silence, just thinking and staring out at the other side of the world for a few more minutes longer before we finally have to head back.
Once we reach my house, Oliver walks me to the front door. Before I head inside, I have to ask him, “So what would you say to him?”
Oliver stares at me, somewhat confused.
“I mean, to Sam. If you had the chance?”
“Oh, well, I—” he stammers. His mouth opens and closes, as if he’s forgotten how to speak. As if something is stopping him. Seeing him struggle like this, I touch his shoulder.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say.
Oliver breathes relief. “Maybe another time,” he says.
I smile and unlock the door.
“Do you think we can do this again?” Oliver asks.
“Go on another walk, you mean?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Or you know, hang out or something.”
I think about this. “I’d like that. But just knock next time. Or a text will do.”
“I’ll try to remember that,” he says. “Although I did text you. But you never responded.”
“When?”
“Earlier today. And yesterday, too.”
“You mean—more than once? That can’t be right.” I check my messages again to be sure. There’s not a single text from Oliver. Now that I think about it, there aren’t any new texts from anyone. Are they not coming through anymore? I’ve noticed this has been happening since I started talking to Sam a few days ago. “It might be my phone. It’s been acting strange lately.”
“That’s a relief,” Oliver says. “I thought you were ignoring me.”
“So you decided to show up and throw rocks at my window?”
Oliver holds back a grin. “What can I say… I’m annoying.”
“Maybe a little bit. Anyway, I should go inside.”
But before I do, Oliver leans in without a word and wraps his arms around me again. It’s a longer embrace than last time, but I let it happen. “Your shirt,” he whispers near my ear. “It still smells like him.”
“It does.”
We say good night. I close the door behind me and listen to Oliver linger on the porch before he eventually makes his way down the steps. As I get ready for bed, I keep wondering what Oliver would say to Sam if he had the chance. I wonder if he will ever trust me enough to share it. Or maybe it’s something I might have already known.
CHAPTER SIX
There is this song I listen to whenever I sit down to write. It’s called “Fields of Gold,” the beautiful live version by the singer Eva Cassidy. The song opens with a distant guitar and a sad voice that sounds like a wolf whimpering or a songbird crying. Every time it plays, I close my eyes and see myself there, standing in a field of golden barley, a cool breeze blowing my hair, and the warm sun setting against my back. No one is ever with me, only the endless rolling fields and the sound of a guitar coming from somewhere I can’t see.
