told me that he didn’t think the night was over, that he knew I didn’t, either.
“I’d say we should go to a bar and get a drink,” I said. “But we already did that.”
Sam nodded. “We sort of did things in reverse, didn’t we? Maybe we should go get lunch now.”
“Or meet for coffee.” I gathered all the trash onto my tray. “Either way, we should get out of here. I don’t want to be like that guy who would always come read books ten minutes before closing. Remember that guy?”
“Remember him?” Sam said, standing up. “I still resent him.”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
Sam and I threw everything away, thanked the man behind the counter, and walked out onto the sidewalk. It was one of those Boston nights that almost make the winters worth it. The air was warm but fresh. The moon was full. The tall, age-old buildings that often looked dirty in the day glowed at night.
“I have a crazy idea,” Sam said.
“Tell me.”
“What if we went for a walk?”
My first thought was that it sounded wonderful and my second was that I wouldn’t last more than ten minutes in my heels.
“Too quaint?” he asked. “Like it’s the nineteen fifties and I’m asking you to split a milk shake?”
I laughed. “No!” I said. “I love the idea. I just know that my feet will start to hurt.”
Up ahead, I saw one of the ubiquitous crimson red signs that litter the city—CVS.
Seven minutes later, I had my high heels in my purse and a pair of five-dollar flip-flops on my feet. Sam had a king-sized Snickers.
“Where to?” I asked him, ready to take on the city.
“I didn’t really have a plan,” Sam said. “But, uh . . .” He looked up and down the street. “This way?” He pointed away from the cluster of buildings.
“Great,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
And off we went. Slowly at first, just putting one foot in front of the other, talking as we did.
The city was humming. Groups of girls out together, college kids walking around, tipsy drinkers smoking cigarettes out on the sidewalk, men and women holding hands on their way out or way home.
Sam told me about teaching eighth-grade orchestra and jazz band, about how he had recently started picking up extra money as a studio musician a few times a month.
I told him how the store was doing, how my parents were doing. I updated him on Marie, told him about Sophie and Ava, even showed him a few signs I’d learned recently. I told him about a few days before when I recognized Ava signing, “Milk, please.”
Sam listened as if I was the most fascinating woman in the universe and I realized how long it had been since someone listened to me like that.
We both made fun of ourselves for living in the city and working in the same suburban area where we grew up, a reversal of the common commute.
We stepped over gum and we made way for other pedestrians and we bent down to pet dogs. We walked past Harvard dorms and Harvard Yard. Twice we walked past a T stop and I wondered if we both wouldn’t gravitate toward it, using it as a way to say good-bye. But my feet didn’t head in that direction and neither did Sam’s. We just kept walking, slowly and peacefully, deeper into the night.
We eventually found ourselves walking along the Charles. My feet started to hurt and I asked Sam if we could sit on one of the benches along the river.
“Oh, I thought you’d never ask. I think I started forming a blister around Porter Square.”
We sat down on a bench and I picked up my phone to check the time. It was one in the morning. I wasn’t tired. And I didn’t feel like going home.
There was so much we had already talked about. We had talked about work and music and families and books. We had talked about anything and everything—other than Jesse.
But once we sat down on that bench, it somehow became impossible to ignore.
“So I suppose you know I’m a widow,” I said.
Sam looked at me and nodded. “I had heard,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure if I should bring it up.” He reached over and grabbed my hand, gently and with tenderness. “Emma, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I hope this feels okay to you,” he said. “Us being out here. Together.”
I nodded. “Surreal, maybe,” I said. “But, yeah, it feels okay.”
“I can’t even imagine