Page 81 of One Last Gift

“Thanks, Hazel.” He put the remainder of his wine down on the countertop. “I, err, best be going.”

“All right.” She gave him a quick, hard hug then stepped back. “I’m still rooting for you, don’t you worry.”

“Huh?”

She smiled. “You know what I mean.” His stomach did that little squirm thing. Maybe at the thought that she was implying that she knew everything—and, let’s be honest, Cassie probably had told her everything. “You know, you can be a bit of an idiot sometimes, but I always liked you.”

Sam snorted quietly at the half-compliment, then sighed.

“Not like her, then,” he said, before he could stop himself.

But that only made her grin. “Now you know that’s not true.”

But he didn’t, did he? That was the problem. He couldn’t separate what he’d felt from her, and what she’d said.

He walked down the two flights of stairs, stepped back out into the autumn chill. Watched a bus pass him, jammed full of people. Then he got out his phone. Opened the message from Sheila, stared at it. And, with something he couldn’t quite identify in his gut, he clicked on the link.

Three Months Later

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sam’s breath misted out in front of him as he crossed the church graveyard, merging into the gray around him, brought on by the overcast sky threatening rain—or snow, if the hopefuls on the radio were to be believed. He passed the old crumbling gravestones, ones which had long since been forgotten, and headed across to the newer part of the graveyard, the dampness of the grass seeping through his shoes.

There was a nod to it being the week of Christmas at the church, with a Christmas tree outside, modestly decorated with white fairy lights, and there were wreaths on some of the gravestones from where loved ones had come to visit. He saw, from a few steps away, that there was no wreath on Tom’s, though. Should he have brought one? No, he thought, Tom wouldn’t have cared. He doubted he would have cared about the flowers, either, but he couldn’t show up empty-handed.

He reached the gravestone, set down the bunch of flowers he’d bought from the local flower shop. He’d gone with the florist’s recommendation, something bright, but not too in-your-face. There was a metal container with holes in the top, but there were already flowers there, someone else having recently come to visit. So he set his next to them, on top of the stone. His eyes traced Tom’s name, gold on orange-and-black granite. Cassie would have chosen it, he realized—she was the next of kin. And it suited him. It was bright, stood out, like he’d done in life.

It had been a year now since Tom had died. Exactly a year. And it felt both like no time had passed, like there might be a chance it hadn’t really happened at all, and like an impossible, infinite amount of time had gone by, time weighted by the absence of his best friend.

He hadn’t been to the grave since the funeral. He’d made excuses to himself—he’d had wedding prep, been in New York, London, then had this climbing gig in Wales. But really, he just hadn’t been able to face it.

“I’m sorry about that, mate,” he said quietly, resting one hand on the cold granite. “It’s been hard, getting by without you. And I miss you.” He blew out a breath, watched the mist hover before disappearing. “God, I miss you. You would love Wales. I know, I know, it sounds boring, doesn’t it? But it’s actually cool and kind of beautiful. And it’s fun, teaching the kids. Fun seeing some of them want to hate you when they come because they’ve been shipped off by their parents or are trying to play it cool, and fun winning them round. You would’ve been great at it.”

He was going back to Wales now: he had decided to commit to moving there, seeing how it went. He’d come to visit his mum for a bit but he knew that, for now, Wales was where he wanted to be. And though he was slightly playing it by ear, the manager at the temporary gig had been impressed with him, asked him to stay on. He thought that he’d like to set something like that up himself one day. Set it up as a charity, maybe, work with disadvantaged kids and give them a chance to get out, do something physical. He still had lots to figure out on that front, but he reckoned he could do it.

He’d managed to find a little cottage in Snowdonia, close to both the beach and the mountains. He was loving the countryside more than he’d thought he would, having always been drawn to the city as a teenager. But he felt like he could breathe, really breathe, for the first time in a long time. A little like when he’d been in Cornwall, with Cassie.

“Cassie’s OK too,” he whispered to Tom, feeling like he had to reassure his friend. “But you probably know that. She’s probably been here, right?” Today? he wondered. Would she have come too, on the anniversary of his death? “But if she hasn’t, don’t be too hard on her. It broke her a bit, when you died, I think. She loved you so much. But she’s tougher than she looks, and I think, I really think, she’ll be OK. I…” His throat closed. It felt odd, to talk about her like this, almost like he was lying to Tom, somehow. What would he have thought, about Sam having feelings for her? Feelings that he hadn’t ever been able to make go away. “I guess all I can say is I’m not going to hurt her. That’s why I’ve let her be, OK? I’ll figure it out, but she’s going to be OK.” He said it firmly, then clapped the top of the gravestone, the way he would have clapped Tom on the back.

He turned, picking up two more bunches of flowers. Smaller, but still beautiful. He’d brought them for Tom and Cassie’s parents, who were buried here, right next to their son. He remembered coming here one year. It had been Mother’s Day, and Cassie had made a card for her mum at school. They’d put it in a plastic wallet to protect it from the rain, set it on the grave, and they’d stood, Tom and Sam each holding one of Cassie’s hands. Too young, really, to know what to do, to say, but they’d all stayed there together in solidarity, looking at the picture that Cassie had drawn.

Sam had gone home to his mum afterward and hugged her, stayed with her while she was cooking, worried about leaving her alone, and she’d let him be, singing to herself as she made spaghetti bolognese, like she knew he didn’t want to talk, just be there.

He’d always admired the two of them, for getting through it, for growing up without their parents and being OK. Then Cassie had lost Tom too. And still, she’d managed to get through the year, had quit her job, moved somewhere completely new. Jesus, how strong did you have to be to come through that still fighting? The thought of it made him miss her more than ever. Physically miss her, something inside him aching at the thought that she was out there, living her life away from him.

“I’ll see you, mate,” he whispered, his voice thick and a little pained. He brushed his hand over Tom’s gravestone, a hard lump in his throat that wouldn’t go away no matter how many times he swallowed. And that was OK. It was OK to feel like that, to want to cry. Because it was evidence that Tom had meant something, wasn’t it? Evidence that he wouldn’t be forgotten.

He took a deep shuddering breath, then turned away, back through the graveyard, past the Christmas tree outside the church and along the gravel pathway to the parking lot. He nodded to someone coming up the path the other way, someone else with flowers in their hand and a lost loved one to grieve.

He got to the parking lot, the sound of his shoes crunching on gravel strangely soothing, and held up the key to unlock his car. Then he jerked to a stop.

His dad was there, getting out of his car, slamming the door behind him. They’d met up once, in London, and it had been awkward and uncomfortable. But they’d talked, a bit—just small talk, nothing serious—and most noticeably, neither of them had yelled at the other. His dad had promised to be in touch more, but Sam hadn’t really believed him. Too many years of being let down for things to be smoothed over by one drink. Yet here he was now.

“What are you doing here?” It came out a little harsher than he’d meant it to.

His dad cleared his throat. “Your mum, she thought I might find you here. She said you were on your way back to Wales, but stopping here first.”

Sam shoved his hands into his pockets, not knowing what else to do with them. “Well, yeah,” he said. Because it was true, he’d give him that.