Clearly this conversation is sponsored by Monica’s sugar rush. She’s a direct person by nature, but I can’t see her just casually bringing this up by the watercooler at work.

“Sorry...he’s actually at a friend’s house.” Even though I’m trying to play it cool, I realize how weird that sounds, like I’m sharing custody of a child or something. But it’s the truth—he’s not under my roof right now and his absence is duly noted.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were married, Char?” Her tone shifts from high energy to slightly serious. “I tell you everything. You know I have irritable bowl syndrome. You were there for me when my dog died last year. I tell you about the petty fights I get in with Danny. I’m not saying we are total besties, but we’re work besties. That counts for something, right? We spend a lot of time sitting across from each other, you know. At the very least, you could have told me you were struggling with something personal and we could have worked through it. Together, like we do with all of our projects.”

I shrug my shoulders. I don’t really have a good answer for her, just like I didn’t have one for Casey. Truthfully, I do appreciate Monica’s friendship and we are a great team. While I’m not an open book, I realize it takes a lot of strength to be one like she is. In fact, I’m envious of her ability to wholeheartedly confide in another. In me, at that.

“The whole thing is just weird,” I summarize. “My husband dying is like an old wound I never want to break open again. So I just keep things separate, life before Decker and life after Decker. Professional life, personal life. Black, white. One, zero. It’s just easier that way.”

“Zareen told me the urn came back to you out of the blue?”

“It showed up on my doorstep last weekend. Thought it was a hard drive.”

“Well, then, see? You can only do so much, girlfriend. Sometimes life has other plans. Or, as I’ve come to witness, no real plans at all. Hell, I’m supposed to be on my honeymoon right now, aren’t I? Instead I’ve got a soccer jersey on and I’m triggering my IBS while hanging out at your apartment.”

Touché.

“Also, there’s no rule that you have to split your life into some weird, binary ‘before’ and ‘after’ he died,” she goes on. “Those are two eras that can speak to each other, blend, blur and still be okay. Know what I mean?”

“I’m just trying to control what I can control. And to me, it makes sense that if I keep quiet about Decker, the pain stays silent, too.”

“I’m not so sure that’s healthy. Or scientifically proved, at that.”

She sticks me with the data and I can appreciate that. “You’re right,” I acknowledge. “I’ll try to be more open with you.”

“Ugh, I can’t eat anymore,” Monica says, ditching her spoon in the sink. “I just got a massive brain freeze.”