She draws me into a hug. I fall into her arms and surprise myself by not sobbing. I think I’m fresh out of tears and grief. I’m also relieved to say goodbye to Dom’s engagement ring. Yes, I loved him. And maybe he loved me. But that ring didn’t mean what it was supposed to mean. To either of us.

“Coming through. Coming through.”

Brad maneuvers his way to the door, and that’s when I notice their entrance is full of boxes. He reaches to hug me, and I squeeze him with a smile. Brad giving hugs is a new and welcome development. I wonder if he is a little less stoic, now that he’s been reminded of the fragility of our existence.

“What’s going on? Are you moving?” I step inside, following Gemma to the kitchen.

She waves her hand. “No, no. Joe brought over things from Dominic’s apartment. I still need to unpack them.”

“I’d love to help,” I offer sincerely. It’s going to suck, but not as hard as it would for Gemma and Brad to do it all by themselves.

“Nonsense.” She flicks the kettle on as soon as we get to the kitchen. “It gives us something to do. And . . . you know, it’s good to reminisce.”

Her eyes shine with tears, but she doesn’t let them fall. I reach over across the breakfast nook she is leaning against and hold her hand. “I know,” I say.

“Joe tells me you helped him in San Francisco. He was so happy to write again. That’s really kind of you.” She wipes her eyes quickly.

Brad walks into the kitchen and silently tucks tea bags into mugs.

“Oh, he was a lifesaver for me too,” I say. I also mean that literally.

Gemma looks like she is about to say something more but then shakes her head, as if ridding herself of an unpleasant thought.

“I made some lemon custard cookies.” She pushes off the breakfast nook, opens a Tupperware, and arranges the cookies onto a decorative plate. “You take your tea with one sugar, correct?”

I nod as I sit at the breakfast nook. Gemma and Brad both approach me with the tea and cookies, nervous smiles on their faces. I take one cookie and start munching it, surprised that I can taste it. I haven’t been able to taste things since Dom died.

“We wanted to apologize again,” Gemma says, “for the whole ordeal with Sarah. How humiliating it must have been to both of you. I can only imagine how much more complex it made an already impossible situation.”

“It’s all right,” I say, and I mean it. This past week, I’ve felt the pain brush past me, as opposed to going through me. It’s like getting pushed by a stranger while hurrying to catch a train. Not like being run over by one.