I’ve done a really good job masking this from everyone. Hiding the fact that I was ever married. Hiding the fact that I am a widow. Now the curtain has fallen. All because I thought my stupid hard drive was in that box. I should have insisted on a little privacy upon seeing Austin written on the To line. Instead, I rushed to open it. I involved Curious Casey. I have no one to blame but myself.

“A mausoleum is different from a crematorium,” I say, as if I’m reciting a sentence off a Wikipedia page. I bring my palm up to my mouth. Mundane as it was, I’m surprised by my ability to even utter words right now.

“Ohhhh, that’s right. The crematorium is where they set the dead bodies on fire, isn’t it? And a mausoleum is just a place where the urn stays. Like a graveyard but for urns, right?”

“Something like that,” I mutter.

I hate that I am familiar with the nuances of these things. Girls my age, they know the difference between highlighter and bronzer. Not the difference between a mausoleum and a crematorium. And of all the things I feel right now, I’m embarrassed that I’m somehow still able to feel jealousy. Jealousy that it’s just so blatantly clear that I’m not a part of the girls who don’t need to know this kind of stuff camp anymore.

“Where’s Pala again? Like a hundred miles from here?”

I nod my head yes. I know she’s probably wondering how he wound up there. This is Los Angeles. I’m not saying mausoleums should be as frequent as cold-pressed juice shops, but you’d think there’d be a slightly more convenient option than a place a hundred miles away that’s best known for its casinos and crypts. And there was. It’s just that convenience never mattered as much as coveted to his mom, the Austin family matriarch.

“You’ve never heard of the Pala Mausoleum?” I ask Casey. “I thought you would have...”

Before I even finish the sentence, Casey has already executed a Google search on her iPhone. Over her shoulder, I see the photo of the place pop right up and my head feels like it has taken a hit of helium, like it’s not even connected to my body anymore.

“Is this it?” She has no idea how the mere photo of it—the chevron marble flooring with flecks of real gold in it, the dreamy high ceilings, the massive flower display of award-winning hydrangeas smack-dab in the center of the lobby—carves an instant pit in my stomach like someone is hollowing out a pumpkin.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Well, I guess this reclaimed wood beaming didn’t fare so well for them, huh? Bet that thing was covered in lacquer and the first to go up in flames. The good news? He’s safe with us now.”

Casey taps my shoulder twice in consolation, and it’s like she’s activated a sensor on a faucet. A few tears drip from my eyes.