Once in a while, I’d check Gillian’s Facebook page. She was the kind of bride who gave me a rash—obsessed with the me-ness of the upcoming day. “Which bouquet do you like best?” she’d ask. Sure, sure, she was an event planner, but come on. She had Pinterest boards of dresses, bouquets, centerpieces, bridesmaid dresses. She had a bachelorette weekend with her twelve closest friends in Miami (those poor women . . . I imagined it cost them thousands), and every photo showed Gillian’s blinding white teeth in a near-feral smile. She wore a tiara that said BRIDE, in case we were unclear.

In short, she was milking every drop of attention she could possibly get, and while I tried not to hate her, I failed. She had a countdown to the wedding on all her pages. Every frickin’ day, she mentioned something wedding related, even posting a picture of the white corsety thing she’d be wearing under her gown. For Pete’s sake, as my mother would say.

Then, four months before the “Big Day,” there came a cyber-silence (not that I was stalking her or anything). Five days later, she posted that she appreciated all the concern and kindness, but she and Noah were going their separate ways. No one was to blame, and they’d stay friends. He was wonderful, and she wished him only the best.

I clicked off immediately, shoving aside the shameful rush of satisfaction. Their breakup was too personal for me to read about, even if she’d posted it for all to see. Noah didn’t have a Facebook page, except for his business: Noah Pelletier Fine Carpentry, on which he posted pictures of kitchen cabinets and decks and, in one case, a rather magical tree house made for one of the summer people.

I didn’t send a card this time. Somehow, some way, even though we hadn’t spoken for years now, I felt responsible for his heartache.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

John

Here are the things he knows.

The old man in the house . . . it’s him. He finally understands how the mirror works, and that old man is him. He’s gotten much older. He looks like his father.

The big man who helps him is named LeVon. He is a friend, but not really, because he works for John. But John thinks of him as his friend and would like to talk to him, but talking isn’t happening.

He has had something called a stroke and a BLT. Or not a BLT, but something like that. A BLT is a sandwich with bacon, and John likes bacon. But the thing he has means his brain has been hurt. His little daughter tells him not to worry about this because he’ll be better soon. His big daughter says less. She is less happy than his little daughter, even though she has very pretty little girls herself. This means she is a mother now. John doesn’t remember that, or the little pretty girls, and that makes his eyes wet and sloppy.