Opening the door, I am prepared to see an impatient barfly or Brian checking on me, but instead it is Steve, the man in the wheelchair. I’m taken aback again by his familiar facial features, especially his baby blue eyes, and put my hand to my chest.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Did I leave my hat in there by chance?”

I prop open the door with the heel of my Converse to let in a little more light, and sure enough, I spy a five-panel cap on the floor.

“Oh yeah, looks like it,” I say as I do a version of downward dog to grab the hat. I see that USC is embroidered on it before handing it back. He flashes a subtle smile and I flash one back before he leaves to rejoin his friend at the bar.

I spot Brian, who has made himself rather comfortable on a bar stool sipping what looks like a Shirley Temple. “Gee, did I really take that long in the bathroom?” I say when I reach him.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist peeping at this game. And the ninety-nine-cent Shirley Temples. Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“I can safely say this is the first time I’ve picked a farmers’ market over watching a baseball game. It’s Dodgers versus Yankees. A Coast-to-Coast Classic is about as exciting as it gets for the MLB.”

“We can stay and watch if you want,” I suggest.

“Nah, let’s boogie. Shall we go?”

From across the bar, I see Steve and his V-neck-clad friend enjoying the baseball game and splitting a bucket of beer. I can’t help but wonder more about Steve. Is this the best it’s been for him? Or the worst? Is this wheelchair thing just a necessary inconvenience due to a recent ACL surgery? Or is he completely paralyzed from the waist down? If Decker somehow could have survived his accident, could this—in time—have been him and...Brian?

For an early one-year anniversary gift, which is supposed to be paper-themed, I bought Decker entry into a race called The Mad Men Mudder. It was featured in Men’s Journal as one of the best courses “for guys with serious balls.” Even though that descriptor was my cue to sit this one out, he was so stoked that I registered him—and even more stoked that Brian was able to get a bib, too, before the race sold it. Decker didn’t train much, didn’t need to. An athlete his whole life, he would have no problem running three miles in thick mud, crawling through a thousand feet of sludge, and biking a rugged trail, all while dressed in a suit and dress shoes like a character from the TV show Mad Men. If I were to be concerned about anyone making it out of the race with their limbs intact, it would have been Brian, who at that time was still rocking a bit of a beer gut Dad-Bod.

On August first, the morning of the race, Decker kissed me goodbye just like he always did before going somewhere—work, the grocery store, out with his friends. A minute later, he came back in—he’d left his Clif Bar and banana on the kitchen counter—and gave me another kiss.