Your couriered package includes a locked, fireproof capsule. You may access the capsule with the attached set of keys to find the original urn.

The choice of where and when you rehome your loved one’s ashes is entirely your own. We are terribly sorry for any inconvenience this may cause and thus grief counselors will be available for up to three complimentary sessions during the next two weeks. Again, this will be offered at no charge to you and we urge you to take advantage of the support during what we can only imagine will be a difficult time. Please call the 800 number listed on our website for more information.

Sincerely,

Robert Hancock

President, Hancock Insurance

It reads as formal as a court summons, but this letter is a casual confirmation that Decker is in this box.

Decker is in our apartment.

“It’s him,” I say with certainty and a hint of defeat. I’ve worked hard to keep this a secret and to keep it in my past. Now it’s neither of those.

“I don’t know what to do in this situation,” Casey says. “But I think we should figure it out somewhere not here. Somewhere that serves beer.”

She grabs my car keys for the second time today and pulls me out the door.

Chapter 3

I don’t want to be here. Here being perched on a wobbly bar stool in a neighborhood drinking hole wearing the same toothpaste-laden dress I had on at Monica’s wedding. But when your brain suddenly functions as well as a waterlogged sock, there’s no fending off your roommate from dragging you out to discuss the untimely return of the most unexpected delivery.

It is evident that my pushback reflexes are experiencing a delay. They did the same thing when this was all going down, when everyone and their mother—specifically Decker’s mother—were trying to tell me what to do. For now, I’m just hoping any piece of therapist advice that I’ve managed to catalog over the years bubbles up. My brain feels like a white noise machine and I need something to cut through the deafening sound of a silent shock.

“Ladies, what are we drinking this evening?” asks a chummy bartender as he puts down two Pabst Blue Ribbon cardboard coasters.

Focus on what you can control is the grief-healing mantra that finally rises to the surface. So, I take some ownership and order a double bourbon and ginger. As the bartender makes my drink, I wedge my hands firmly between my butt and the bar stool. If I don’t take them out of frame, eagle-eyed Casey—the same girl who spotted my crimson lip like she was solving Where’s Waldo?—will for sure notice they are trembling, and I don’t want to be asked if I’m okay right now. I don’t know if I’m okay right now.

“Well, you’d think a mausoleum, of all places, would be built with just a tad more protection against flames, amiright? I mean, aren’t they setting dead bodies on fire there every single day? How did they not safeguard the place?”