After using a spatula to lick the batter off every square inch of my mixing bowl, it’s now time to get ready for the Dodgers game with Brian. Admittedly, I have no idea how to pull off a sporty yet cute style, but that’s exactly the look I’m going for tonight. So I text Casey for fashion advice, knowing full well that whatever she says is likely going to involve...

Ripped jeans.

OK. What else? I write back.

Just then, her mug shows up on the screen of my phone. She’s for whatever reason FaceTiming me. This is a first.

“Sorry, I’m in the middle of setting up a vintage electric chair at one of my booths. I can’t text right now,” she explains. “So you’re going to a baseball game, Rosen?”

“Yeah, with a friend.”

“OOOooooooOoohh,” she says. I don’t have an annoying little sister. But if I did, I imagine she’d be just like Casey. “Maybe you can bring this friend to my expo after? Weird surroundings are perfect for lifting the awkwardness of a first date, just saying.”

“It’s not a date,” I say, polishing off one of her LaCroixes. “It’s just an old friend who had behind-home-plate seats he didn’t want to waste.”

“Behind home plate? Got news for you, Charlotte. You don’t just invite some random girl you aren’t trying to hook up with to take that seat. You take a client, your best dude friend, or a girl you’re trying to impress. Hate to be the bearer of good news, but he’s trying to impress you, my wonderful widow friend.”

“Relax, Casey. It was a last-minute invite. Now, can we get back to the original question? What do I wear? I need to hurry up and get ready. He’ll be here in a half hour.”

“And he’s picking you up? Christ. Throw on an oversized jersey, put your hair in a loose ponytail, and go with nude-colored makeup. No eyeliner. It’s humid tonight. It’ll smudge.”

I’m shocked that she’s advising against eyeliner, something she will likely have tattooed on her body next. I’m also somewhat stalled. I mentally scan my closet and know for a fact I don’t own a Dodgers jersey and neither does she. But then I realize I know—or knew, rather—someone who does.

“Thanks, girl. Can you pop Leno out when you’re home? It’s gonna be a late night and I don’t want him to pee on the floor.”

“Late night? OOooooOOh,” she says again.

I roll my eyes and tell her bye as I hang up while she’s still teasing me.

On the top shelf of my closet, I spot the moving box labeled “Decker’s Stuff.” It’s next to a few large suitcases, some winter clothes I haven’t needed since moving to California, and the box for last year’s Christmas present from my parents, an Instant Pot.

It’s hard to believe there’s just one left. One box is what I’ve pared the Decker collection down to. Everything else I’ve managed to slowly but surely take to Goodwill over the years. That’s never a fun trip. It feels like I’m shedding a layer of skin each time I pull into the drop-off line, not knowing what’ll be left of me without retaining tangible memorabilia of his. But it is a necessary errand, especially if you don’t want to explain to a guy you have over why you have a shelf full of men’s clothes in your closet.