Page 50 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“I’m not going on a trip like that.”

“Yes. I believe your response was ‘Absolutely not.’ Then the North Shore Grump left the chat. A big loss for us all.”

“North Shore Grump?”

With the coatrack packed away, I shove my coat over Adam’s on the closet doorknob. “You know, because of your geographic location and economy of words.”

He crosses the room to the kitchen. “Did I say something wrong?”

Yes! Not only did you point out how I’m failing in my relentless quest toward self-improvement, you also reminded me that, to you, I’m Sam’s Current Girlfriend. Possibly forever.

His forehead crinkles in confusion like he’s a scolded puppy. I can’t help it; I paste on a smile and choose the path of least resistance. “Of course not.”

He looks at me in a way I feel in my toes before he lifts one finger and traces the corner of my lip. Then he asks, his voice so low I almost miss it, “Why do you think I want to hear that?”

I inhale, I think. My brain is goo.

“No reason,” I tell him once he’s dropped his hand. “What do I need to do today?”

He looks around the apartment. Most of it is packed. Aside from the boxes crowding the entry, the place looks cold and bare, like we’ve puttied over any evidence of the existence of Sam.

“While I prep the walls, can you box up the corner bookcase? I’ll drop it off at the Lewises’ later today.”

Tension grips my shoulders. I’ve been avoiding the bookcase, and today—Yearly BRCA Appointment Day—it’s the very last place I want to be. This bookcase is Sam’s life. It’s his favorite books, photos, trinkets, and souvenirs. It’s proof of a short life well lived. Even looking at it feels intrusive.

I exhale loudly. Theatrically. The baiting way you breathe when you’re daring someone to notice how undone you are so you can bite their head off.

“You okay?” Adam asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay…” He walks back to his ladder, clearly confused and hurt.

I walk to my corner and face Sam’s bookcase. I have to drag a bar stool from the kitchen to reach the top, but I start there. It’s adorned with trinkets that have never made it to his social media feed: faded Polaroids, seashells, a cracked gas station key chain, a stack of handwritten journals, and a receipt for auto-body repair written in Spanish.

I’m struck by how meaningless it all looks to me. I’ve seen the selfies he’s shared of all these places, but these shelves are packed with the bits he wanted to remember—just himself.

Sometime between the breakup and his death, I reduced all of Sam down to a label to be neatly filed away: that time I was dumped by a travel influencer. The items on this shelf prove he was so much more than that.

Sam was living his life for himself. Sure, certain poses and pictures monetized a rosy-hued snapshot, but there’s no evidence of that on these shelves. Here, he kept the memories of what he truly experienced.

What this shelf reveals is how disingenuous I was about him. He was looking for someone to share the real parts of the adventure with. I wanted him to make my life the highlight reel. Guilt buzzes under my skin like a bee trapped behind a curtain.

Sorting these mementos isn’t the issue—it’s all “Keep”—but I don’t know how long these things will sit in a box when I’m done. Will Sam’s family immediately take out every item, discussing their memories with each small token? Or will the box sit in a basement for years until someone opens it in search of something in particular, only to slam it shut to hold the painful ghost of grief at bay? I feel like I owe it to Sam to witness it all—one last time—before it gets packed away.

I reach into a small ceramic bowl and pull out a few coins from other countries and a piece of plastic. My heart clenches when I recognize a chip from Mystic Lake Casino, because I have its mate somewhere in my jewelry box.

He told me a ludicrous story of getting drunk with bikers at a casino in Macau on our third date. I’ve never gambled before, I told him. So on our fourth date, he took me to the local casino.

I bet twenty dollars on a card game I didn’t know how to play and lost it all. We played penny slots for the afternoon, and before we left, he handed me one of his last two $1 chips and said, We’ll each hold on to one—for bail money.

Now I sit on the floor with Sam’s chip. He was so sure I could live a life as free and untethered as his if I wanted it. When I met Sam, I was certain he was exactly what my small life needed. I thought I wanted my world to get brighter, bigger, and scarier, but I wasn’t brave enough to hold on to that light. Or I didn’t want it enough. Or maybe I wasn’t worthy of it.

I do everything it takes to keep from crying. I don’t get to cry over this. Remembering is the absolute least I can do.

My phone beeps, reminding me of my appointment. Two and a half hours have passed in a blink while I’ve hardly made a dent. I put the chip back in the dish and walk toward the front door.

“I have to go,” I say, facing the closet. My coat hugs Adam’s over the doorknob. It’s denim-side out today, and a grin clambers up my face in spite of my mood.

---