“I’ve been better.”

“Well, I’m sure the middle-of-the-night wine chaser probably wasn’t the best choice,” she says, nodding in the direction of the empty bottle on the counter.

“I’ll replace your wine, I promise.”

“Can you get me a bottle of rosé when you do? I’m not basic enough to buy a bottle myself, but I’m really in the mood for it. By the way, what are you up to today? Some friends from the expo are going to the beach if you—”

“Can’t,” I say, holding my hand up to signal she should save her breath. Since my little escapade into the kitchen led to a full-blown fucked-up dream, I’ve come to realize that this normal day of rest is going to be anything but. “I’ve got a lot on my plate.”

“Hey, I was wondering, can I see a picture of him?”

Of all the questions Casey has asked so far since Decker’s return, this one hits me the hardest.

“A picture?”

“Yeah. I’m curious what the guy who did it for you looked like.”

If I do this, if I show her a picture of Decker, it’ll be the most vulnerable I’ve been with anyone who isn’t family, a therapist, or a stranger from a support group. But I’ve lived with Casey for five years, and if anything, she’s been the constant in my life since Decker’s death. Always there to offer a pick-me-up bottle of wine (which I normally accept) or funky new eye shadow to try (which I normally decline). I should meet her in the middle.

A warmth washes over me—perhaps because I’ve just slowly shut the fridge door like it was made of a thin, fragile sheet of glass—like the way you pull thick covers over your cold shoulder at night. It feels comfortable. It feels safe. Hell, I just saw him in my dream. Maybe seeing him on my screen won’t feel as foreign. What’s there to be afraid of?

“Okay. Gimme a sec,” I say, pulling my phone out of the pocket of my robe.

I pause, briefly, thinking how to navigate the ask. I could visit his Facebook page. It’s still there, along with all the photos of him, us, and everything in between. But I don’t go to that anymore. Not after I mistakenly decided to read through all the messages people left him on his wall after he died, then again on his birthday. They wrote these things to him as if he were still alive, as if he could read them. I guess it was sweet. But to the one person who wished more than anyone that Decker was still alive, it wasn’t sweet. It was scary. I’m not going to let my heart get tricked like that again.

So instead I choose to show her a photo of the two of us in Punta Cana that I keep in my “favorites” folder on my phone. We went there one time on a whim—a quick Friday through Monday getaway. We weren’t living together yet, so getting an email from him in the middle of my workday saying he booked the Travelzoo deal turned me into that cliché lunatic you see in public cheesing at their phone. On the last day of our vacation, after two too many margaritas in, he convinced me to rent a Jet Ski. Decker drove fast—really fast—and I...I held on for dear life and screamed bloody murder, white-knuckling him from behind. Admittedly I was having an absolute blast, and at one point he took his cell phone out of its plastic bag and we fired off a few quick selfies on the open water. When I look at him in that picture, a few crow’s-feet surrounding his smiling bright blue eyes, I am reminded of all the ease with which he navigated this complex world. His worries capped at appreciating the moment and doing things that scared him so he could learn and grow.