Amala raised her head slowly, but with her back turned to him, he couldn’t see her face. He’d longed to talk to her about their shared grief, and at least she was listening—so far. Therefore, he kept talking.

“Sometimes I like to think of her spirit being here with me—with us—and I want to be closer to that feeling. And sometimes the very idea just makes me miss her more. I’m so glad she’s no longer suffering, but I think I spend way too much time feeling sorry for myself for being left behind. It’s not that I want to die; I have so much that’s good in my life, so much worth living for—not the least of which is my son. It’s just that . . . Kat’s gone, and I’m here, and it feels all wrong.”

Henry allowed enough silence to give Amala the opportunity to speak if she wanted to. He could hear her sniffling and saw the way she was wiping at her face with a handkerchief. She finally said, “Yes, it does feel all wrong. I . . .”

She hesitated far too long, and he urged, “Please talk to me, Amala. For all that’s happened, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had, and I’m going through the most difficult thing that’s ever happened to me. I know you’re struggling with it too. We both love her; we always will. Please talk to me. Tell me how you feel. Help me feel better by letting me know that I’m not alone in this. Your parents are wonderful, but . . . it’s different. Please talk to me.”

Amala lowered her head, and Henry heard evidence that she was fighting back the urge to start sobbing again. With her back still turned to him, he could see her shoulders heaving with unvented grief. He wanted to sit next to her, to wrap her in his arms and let her cry on his shoulder. But he thought it was more prudent to remain seated where he was and adhere to conversation. For all that he wanted to bridge the gaps between them, he didn’t want to do or say anything to imply—even in the smallest way—that he could even consider honoring Kat’s deathbed request.

Henry wondered what else he might say to offer some comfort or to encourage her to talk about her grief, which might help ease it. When he came up with nothing, he was relieved to hear her finally find her voice again. “I . . . keep wishing it would have . . . been me.”

Henry was so shocked that it took him a long moment to even be able to utter, “What? What do you mean?”