Before I can make sense of the situation, Gretchen and Sydney are already deep in conversation. It takes me a moment to adjust, but once I do, it’s fun. So fun that a good fifteen minutes go by before I realize I’ve only opened half my mail. I’d planned on opening it here so I could send anything important back to the apartment with Sydney, not tote it to Shane’s. Pulling a plain business envelope from the pile, I’m distracted by Gretchen and Sydney as I open it and pull out a folded piece of paper. Pain slices across my fingertip, the annoying zing of a paper cut.

Fuck.

Pressing my thumb to my wounded index finger to stem the tiny stream of blood, I shake the letter open with my other hand. A Polaroid tumbles out, landing face up. Aged and battered, I recognize it on a cellular level long before my eyes focus. It’s a photo of Keith and me, eleven years younger. We’re on our honeymoon, bundled in winter gear, kissing in front of a ski lift.

Grief is a lightning strike. Blazing through my bones, rousing everything it touches. My rib cage strains as buried somedays and one days reanimate and try to dig their way out. They’re panicking, writhing in my chest. My brain is shrieking, Stay dead, please stay dead, there’s nowhere for you to go. I’m a dozen self-help books deep, and not one has told me what to do with dreams built around a person who stopped loving me.

And I don’t know why they stopped.

There’s a lump in my throat—a someday, probably—but I gulp it down. I’m not crying outside a coffee shop. I fucking refuse. Sydney and Gretchen have gone silent, and when I tear my eyes from the photo, they’re watching. Waiting.

“Keith,” I say quietly.

Sydney reaches for the photo. I start to read the letter. It’s handwritten. I make it two words. My name written in Keith’s looping scrawl makes my eyes prickle. The last year of undergrad, we were long-distance. We talked on the phone all the time, but every single week he wrote me a letter. Mundanities become memories when someone you love writes them down. I kept every single letter, right up until the end.

I’m not doing this anymore.

“Will one of you please read this?” I set the letter on the table. “See if there’s anything I need to know.”

Anger makes my hand tremble as I pick up my drink. The ice rattles against the cup wall. I place it back down without taking a sip.

Sydney’s skimming the letter, her face twisted in derision. When she’s done, she passes it to Gretchen. “Look at this horseshit.”

Gretchen looks at me first, seeing if I’m comfortable with her reading it. I’m surprised my lips don’t crack when I smile. I feel that brittle. Nodding, I say, “Have at it.”

As Gretchen reads, I try to force myself to relax.

Breathe.

He’s trying to make you emotional for whatever reason.

“That is a letter,” Gretchen says, folding the paper in half.

I shouldn’t laugh, but I do.

Sydney joins in, adding, “You don’t want to read it. Too many words to say I found this photo and remembered the good times, hope you’re doing well.”

“Anything damning enough to send to Naomi and get his ass in trouble?” That would improve my mood.

Gretchen shakes her head. “Assuming Naomi’s the new one, no. It’s carefully worded. Fucking lawyers.”

Sydney gestures to the photo. “How much do you know about this mess, Miss Gretchen?”

Over the past nineteen days, I’ve chatted with Gretchen about my ordeal. She knows I’ve been divorced a little over six months, my husband cheated on me, and he works with Shane.

“Enough to gently suggest she throw out that picture.” Her smile is sympathetic.

Part of my self-control leaves my body with my exhale, and I mutter, “I’d like to throw a dart at it.”

That gets a laugh. I try to push thoughts of Keith out of my head as the conversation slowly turns to other things. After I’ve gone through my mail, I grab all the junk—picture and letter included—and march it to the trash can outside the coffee shop door.

Gretchen and Sydney cheer when I drop it in, startling me and a couple exiting the shop.

“Thank you for your support.” Dropping into the chair with a clang, I’m pleasantly surprised that I feel better than I did when the photo was sitting on the table.

“I like seeing you stick to your guns,” Sydney says.

Gretchen nods. “You’ll do so much better than him.”

“She will.” Sydney’s chirp is confident. “Oh, let’s circle back to where we started. Claire shouldn’t tell me about the mighty hunter, you should.” Angling her body toward Gretchen, she waits expectantly.

“You don’t have to humor her,” I tell Gretchen.

She winks at me. “I could share a fact or two. What would you like to know?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Sydney’s question comes whiplash fast, as does my admonishment.

“Stop. That’s rude.” I get another forearm pat from Gretchen.

“Gretchen knows I don’t mean it rude.” She fidgets with her drink. “I’m just trying to understand. If he’s as nice, normal, and good-looking as Claire says he is, he shouldn’t be single.”

The day is suddenly far too hot, sweat beading between my breasts. A droplet runs from my temple. Gretchen, bless her, doesn’t acknowledge the “good-looking” comment. She watches a woman pass by our table, smiling at the dachshund she’s walking.

“Between us,” Gretchen says pointedly, “Shane is a character.”

Sydney opens her mouth. Gretchen gives her a look and keeps going. “Not an ejaculate-in-the-potato-salad or whatever you said earlier sort of character.” I stifle a laugh. “He’s particular, obsessive, and he has the curse a lot of extremely successful men have.”

“If you say vampirism, I’m out,” I warn Gretchen.

She tsks. “As if you weren’t floating around the house the other day with teeth marks on your neck.”

Her side-eye has me sliding lower in my chair. “Never mind.”

Sydney makes a thoughtful sound. “So he’s a biter. Noted.”

Gretchen continues, “He avoids things he thinks he won’t excel at. That man’s scared of anything that doesn’t have a handbook and KPIs.”

What?

Sydney looks as confused as me. I’m starting to ask for clarification when a cheerful tune plays and Gretchen pulls out her phone.

“Oh, that’s my daughter.” Now she’s up and moving, collecting her bag in one hand as she holds her phone in the other. I wave for her to leave her empty cup for us to recycle.

To Sydney, she says, “It was nice to meet you,” and to me, “See you at the house.”

Then she’s going, answering her phone as she walks away.

Sydney leans back in her chair and gives me a serious look. “He’s definitely a cannibal.”

SEVENTEEN Claire

Time continues to pass too quickly. On day twenty-two, I’m surprised when my watch vibrates while I’m grading quizzes in my room. After realizing how much free time I had—even Shane cannot fuck constantly—I found a side gig. Now I’m instructing summer sessions of anatomy and physiology online for the local community college. Since I stepped in to take over for a teacher who had to quit unexpectedly, the lessons are already created. All I have to do is answer questions and grade assignments. Tedious but not difficult.

This is the first time Shane’s summoned me before getting home from work. He gives me a five-minute head start, which has me tearing from the house without even turning off my computer. His SUV is coming down the driveway as I sprint across the yard. The clouds are low, a storm about to roll in. That explains the urgency, the cloud of dust behind his SUV.