“What do you mean?”
“In the original version, Audrey gets eaten by the plant.”
Oliver looks at me, eyes wide. “You mean, Audreydies?”
“Yeah. She does.”
Oliver stops walking. “Why would they do that?”
“Because that’s what actually happens in the play,” I explain. “But when they showed the film to audiences, it made a lot of people upset. Because everyone loved Audrey too much. So they rewrote it and changed the ending.”
“I’m glad they changed it!” he says, a edge in his voice. “It would have ruined the entire movie.”
“I agree with you. I’m only saying that another ending exists.”
“But itshouldn’t,” he says. “It doesn’t matter what they filmed before. Because Audrey lives.”
“Maybe in the movie. But in the play, she doesn’t.”
“Well then I won’t watch the play—” He walks off.
I follow beside him. I didn’t mean to ruin the film. “You know, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. Having different versions of something. At the end of the day, you get to decide what happened. So both can be true.”
Oliver turns to me. “That’s wrong.There can’t be two different versions of the same thing.”
“Why not?”
“Because one is the original, and the other is a copy. Something can feel the same or sound the same, but it isn’t the same at all. It’s inherently something else. So in order to have two different endings, you need two different Audreys.”
I think about this. “What exactly are you talking about?”
“I’m saying there’s only one of him, and that’s the one I knew. You can’t clone him or make different versions of him, and try to write a new him. You can’t make changes. Because there’s onlyoneSam.”
We are no longer talking about Audrey.
“Maybe you’re right. It was only a thought.”
We reach the corner that splits our path home. A hedge of white roses peeks over a fence beside us.
“Sorry to kill the mood again,” Oliver says.
“It’s alright. I get it.”
“Thanks for seeing the movie with me.”
“I’m glad I went.”
Before we part ways, Oliver notices the roses. He leans forward to touch one.
“Careful,” I say. “It might bite.”
He smiles as he plucks a rose from the hedge. For a second, I think he might give it to me. But he doesn’t. He just holds on to it.
“Heading home then?” I ask.
“Eventually,” he says. “Have to make a stop somewhere first.”
“Where?”
