Brian walks away into his bedroom and a minute later returns with the urn. He sets it down on the coffee table.

“You know, I finally figured you out, Charlotte Rosen. You just want to look at a computer screen—or a wall with a bunch of sticky notes on it—and go with whatever it spits out, even if that means rewriting history. Even if that means ignoring actual reality.”

“I’m quite in touch with reality, thankyouverymuch.” I put the urn in my Birkin. “How else would I have been able to take my own husband off life support if I didn’t understand reality?”

“You’ve got to stop routing back to that day. Not everything is about that decision you made five years ago. This sure as hell isn’t.” He gestures to my Post-it bracket.

“This is about preserving Decker’s memory.”

“This is about manipulating information to fit the narrative you want to hear. What if Gemma was in love with me? What if Decker had a kid and chose not to tell you about it? Life is messy. Life is complicated. I want you to be free of these numerical, mathematical shackles you put on everything. Real relationships and real-life situations have an actual arc to them and sometimes chips fall where they may.”

I assess the web of sticky notes I’ve slathered on his wall like an oil spill. I hate to admit it, but I think Brian was right to get real with me just now. Sure, this relationship map looks like it’s about Gemma, but it’s really about me. It’s about the way that I’ve set up rules—so many of them for so long. I’ve put stakes in the ground and roped off restricted areas every which way regarding how to move on, with whom, when, where, and why. And I’ve done an excellent job—especially this last week—convincing myself it was never Brian and could never be Brian.

I start to peel off the stickers one by one and Brian steps softly into my peripheral.

“Hey, don’t worry about those right now. Let’s sit down,” he says.

We make our way over to his signature comfy couch. If every therapist I have ever seen had a couch like this, I probably would have kept a weekly appointment.

“You’re right,” I say. “This is dumb.”

“It’s not, Charlotte. You’re passionate about the truth and that’s a good thing. More people should be like you. So don’t apologize. In fact, I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t mean to infer that you didn’t care about my patient. I know you do,” he says. “And I’m sorry for the soapbox about the way life is just now. It’s not the same for everyone and I shouldn’t have freeballed like that. I guess that’s the problem with going with your gut sometimes, you know?”

I’m looking into his brown eyes, a little sleep crust in the corner of them. All I can think in this moment is how good it feels to sit next to someone so comfortable with taking accountability and apologizing.