“Don’t let a little rain ruin our night!” We waited three hours outside for the band’s lead singer, Mark Lanegan, to come out and hail his taxi. I pull the jacket over my head as Sam holds his signed guitar tight to his chest, desperate to keep it dry. It is pouring on our way home from the Screaming Trees concert. Sam and I race down puddle-filled streets as bursts of lightning lit up the sky. Like it’s still holding in rain from the last time I wore it out. The denim feels cold to the touch, almost damp. I’ve had it for so long, and wear it so often, I forgot it was his. 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 set the box down and turn back to get it. I only make two steps out the door before I realize I forgot something. It’s the first time this week I managed to get out of bed before noon. I take a few deep breaths before I grab the box and leave my room.
I never realized how much of him I had lying around. Once I have everything collected, I take a long look at my room. They say moving on becomes easier with time, but I can barely hold a photo without my hands trembling. 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.Įvery day these little reminders of him get harder to look at. Then I climb out of bed and start upending drawers, looking for anything that was Sam’s or reminds me of him.
I play the voice mail a few more times before I delete everything. 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. If only he didn’t forget about me in the first place. If only he’d listened to me and stayed with his friends.
But I’m leaving now! Okay? Just wait there! Should only take me an hour. “Julie-you there?” Some laughter in the background, and crackling from the bonfire. Morning light comes through the curtains as I lay curled in bed, listening to Sam’s voice mail again. Maybe then everything would be different. Reading these back again, I wish I hadn’t been so angry at him. Twelve unread messages, seven missed calls, and one voice mail. All five miles from the bus station, dragging an overstuffed carry-on with a broken wheel in the middle of the night.
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