Brian reaches across the table and puts his right hand on my shoulder, and we hold eye contact until an alarm goes off on Brian’s phone. He springs his hand away to silence the noise.

“Well, that’s my cue. I’ve got to get to the hospital for rounds. Thanks for letting me visit and help a little bit with Project Decker. I like doing that kind of thing. Helping people.” He smiles and points to the embroidery on his scrubs pocket. If I still worked for the studio, I would try my hardest to land him a walk-on role for some hospital drama. He’d be a great D-list McDreamy.

“And just remember...if shit hits the fan, I’m your guy. Call me, come over, whatever.”

“I’ll keep you posted,” I say as I open the screen of my laptop back up.

Alone again at Alfred’s, I afford myself the liberty of a Google search titled “what to do with your loved one’s ashes.” The top result is an article with fifty-two unique options. When I click the link, I am hopeful that something will trigger a solid next step.

Scrolling down the page, hope turns to confusion, then doubt, and then finally a little bit of nausea when I get to entry number forty-four: Sprinkle some ashes into your favorite jar of nail polish and wear your loved one on the tips of your fingers. And... I’m officially done here.

I spot a woman perching up an Open sign on the sidewalk outside a boutique across the street. The water bowl she sets down next tells me they’re dog-friendly, and so I wake Leno from sunbathing, figuring I’ll pop in on my way back to the apartment.

“Hi there,” says the store attendant once I’m standing in the entryway. “Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Her bubbly greeting is a stark difference from what you get at most LA boutiques—a death stare followed by completely ignoring your existence when you ask for help. I smile back as I snake my way through the store, making sure Leno doesn’t knock into a jewelry display.

What are you up to? The text from Casey lights up my wrist as I shuffle some striped T-shirts on a rack to the left in search of my size.

Nothing. Just shopping, I say back.

Oh.

Oh? The single-word answer makes me pause for a moment. Should I not be shopping? Is it not okay for me to do something banal right now? I got temporarily let go from my job and my husband’s ashes need to go somewhere other than a bottle of OPI. I would think checking to see if these moto-style leggings come in my size would come with a little less judgment from Casey, of all people.

OK* Stupid autocorrect, she texts back before I get the chance to dissect her accidental word choice further. I breathe easier knowing it was just a typo. Was wondering if I left my keys at home. Nvm.