I think back to my call with Ethan this morning.God, that seems like a lifetime ago.I can’t wrap my head around the idea that I won’t be able to pick up the phone and call him. That he won’t ever see the memes and reels I send him that I think he will laugh at. Or that I won’t get similar messages from him.
Did I say I love you?
I shake my head, trying to coax the thoughts away, and look around his room.
It hasn’t changed much since we were in high school. Mom always wanted us to feel like we had a place to stay if we needed it, so she never changed our rooms. They are both exactly how we left them when we moved out to go to college.
It’s almost funny looking at Ethan’s room now because it could be one of those fake room setups in a museum with a plaque that says: “Typical Teenage Boy Bedroom Circa 2010.” I chuckle softly at the thought.
The walls are still stark white. Ethan and I begged Mom for years to let us paint our bedrooms. Ethan insisted that green walls would make him smarter.
I wanted pink. I’m not even sure why, because I’ve never been a girly-girl. If I had to wear a dress or a skirt, it was a bad day. It's funny that now I wear mostly dresses to work. Despite Liv’s very vocal distaste for my wardrobe choices, it's easier than having to coordinate patterns and styles.
My attention focuses on Ethan’s letterman’s jacket hanging on a hook by the door. I glide my fingers along it, feeling the soft leather. I run my hand along the OAKS patch on the back.
He was so proud the day he lettered in track. He begged Mom all summer to get him a letterman’s jacket so he could“show off his accomplishment.”She caved, and he never stopped wearing it.
He even took it with him when he left for the University of South Carolina. Over Christmas break, he brought it back and hung it here. He was so worried that people would view him as“peaking in high school,”and he“didn’t want that reputation.”
Looking at Ethan’s jacket, I wonder if it’s moved from this spot since that Christmas. I lift it off the hook and slip it on, wanting to feel its weight. It's a little big on me, but it’s worn in all the right places and feels warm over my chilled skin.
It's strange to think how far we’ve both come. Ethan wanted to walk in Dad’s footsteps. He attended the same school as Dadand worked at the firm Dad founded with his law school buddies a couple of years after they graduated.
I couldn’t stand the idea of becoming another Oaks at Wilde, Oaks, and Harris PLLC, so I set off on my own adventure. After graduating from high school, I moved across the country and attended school in Seattle, Washington. I had a job waiting for me in Columbia when I graduated. Actually, I never intended to go to law school. But when it came time to decide on a career path after completing my undergraduate degree, I realized that law school made sense.
Keeping his jacket on, I slowly walk further into his room and sit down on his queen-size bed. Ethan was tall, 6’3, and his bed got bigger as he did.
I feel the tears sting my eyes again as I look around the room, taking it all in but not actually seeing anything.
My gaze lands on a photo in a simple black picture frame on Ethan’s nightstand. I recognize the image from the summer when Liv and I graduated from high school.
Ethan and Sam were home from college for the summer. Liv and I wanted to celebrate by being pulled on the tube behind my parents’ boat. The four of us used to beg my parents every weekend to take us out on the boat.
I remember Mom took this photo at the end of the day. The four of us all lined up, Liv and me in our swimsuits and the guys in board shorts. We all had huge smiles on our faces, and our skin was sun kissed. The exhaustion from a long day on the lake settled into our eyes. It was one of the best days I've had.
Little did I know that things would change so drastically between Sam and me just a couple of years later.
I can’t take my eyes off the photo. Off Sam.
He’s standing next to me, his arm around my shoulders. His light brown hair is cut short and appears spiky from the salt water.His chocolate-brown eyes stare straight into the camera. He’s smiling so big I can see the dimple on his left cheek.
Clutching the picture to my chest, my mind drifts to how we left things when Sam graduated from college. Me, standing in the jewelry store begging him to love me, and him saying no.
I felt pathetic even now. The way I reacted, and, if I’m being honest, still acting.
Sam tried to reach out several times after that horrible afternoon. He called and sent several text messages each day asking me to call him.
I never responded. I was too embarrassed. After a week, he showed up at my dorm room. I didn’t answer the door. I tried to stay quiet so he would think I wasn’t there.
At the end of the month, I watched him walk across the stage and get his diploma. It took everything in me not to break down in front of everyone—my heart had been shattered.
After the ceremony, he started making his way over to us, but before he could reach us, I made up some excuse and took off.
His messages continued despite my lack of response. A month after graduation, his messages stopped cold turkey. I kept checking my phone, hoping he would message me. I’m not even really sure why, because I probably wouldn’t have responded anyway. But it felt like I wasn’t drowning as much, while I knew he was still trying.
I finished my last two years and then went on to law school. Without him.
I heard from my parents that Claire said yes when he proposed to her—I cried for days after. About a year later, the wedding was off. I never learned why. I never asked, and my family didn’t tell me. I think they knew something happened between Sam and me.
