“Holy shit, he’s hot,” Casey exclaims after I tilt the phone her way. “Wait. Is that kosher to say about a dead guy?”

“Yes, it’s fine.” I sort of smile as I watch Casey awkwardly navigate what is kosher or not in a situation like this. Ironically, that is the same conundrum I have faced since he died. I may be a widow, but I don’t have the rule book. In fact, I’m pretty sure there isn’t one.

And, yes. Decker is—well, was—hot. He was a six-foot-three lacrosse player. All in all just your healthy Cali-boy who liked french fries in his burritos and occasionally called in sick for a surf day when the waves were just right. I remember thinking, They don’t make them like this in NYC.

I’m already ready for a refill of my coffee when my eye catches a dish towel draped on top of the stove.

“Why is the towel like this?” I ask as I look over to the oven.

“Like what?” Casey responds.

“Crumpled on top of the stove. Did you do that? Did you put it there like that?”

When Decker used to wash his hands at the kitchen sink, he would use the decorative dish towels I threaded through the handle of the oven to dry them off, but never put the towel back on the handle. Instead, he’d leave the expensive Anthropologie linens I was gifted at my bridal shower just strewn about the top of the stove. Not only a fire hazard, but his most signature, lovingly annoying habit. It is truly as if someone has broken in here. Someone I once knew—was married to, actually.

“No. Not that I know of. Why? Is something wrong?”

Upon closer inspection, I see there’s a brush of red lipstick, along with some wine, right through the middle of it. It matches the color Monica had me swipe on at her wedding mixed with a bit of pinot noir. I’m the culprit—and I must be losing my mind, thinking this was some kind of a sign that he’s back and he wanted my attention.

I thread the cloth through the handle, where it belongs.

Chapter 6

On my way into The Influencer Firm, an incoming call rings through my car speakers and I answer with a click of a button on the steering wheel. Sure, it may burn your thighs, but I have to give credit to a car that makes it this easy to pick up my mom’s call.

I have a standing Sunday morning phone call with The Jeaner, something we’ve been doing since I moved out west after graduating college. But I admittedly missed her call yesterday. I was too busy nursing an ugly hangover that left me with little more energy than that required to lie in bed and avoid any conversation about the recent turn of events. It’s a horrible thing to slice your own flesh and blood’s incoming call, especially when it’s from a woman who has always understood what you’re going through, had your back, and supported you.