“What do you mean?”

“Since the urn came back, it’s like I have one foot rooted in the past right now, which feels nice. I miss Decker. The water is warm when I think about him. But the other foot is ready, like ready to just spring forward. But I have absolutely no idea how to push myself in that direction.”

“It’s got to be tough with the urn—just a constant, physical reminder. It’s like, I don’t know, a shackle or something.”

I pause and contemplate her comparison.

“But the thing is,” I explain, “I’m the only one who can make him leave and I want to make sure I do that right—with a lot of love and respect. And that’s a lot harder than it sounds, trust me. You know me, Mon. I crank out new business pitches in a half hour. I run reports on the fly. I solve things on the spot. But with this, I don’t know. It’s different. It’s like moving in slow motion. I’ve only gotten as far as a stupid Google search or two. I thought I would be further along with figuring out where to put him and what makes sense in this situation, and instead I’m just stuck here wondering why the hell I can’t seem to get myself into gear.”

Talking it out like this makes me sweat so much, I have to wipe my upper lip with the back of my right hand.

“You will figure this out. Remember what I told you? Life has no plans. You didn’t ask for this. You’re doing the best you can. It’ll all be okay. Give yourself some time. Those warm fuzzy feelings will come. Things will be clearer. I promise.”

Monica puts a comforting hand on my shoulder and we stand on my balcony in silence, looking up to the sky.

“Hey, sweetie,” she says after a while. “You okay? I’ve got to get going to the game. I didn’t mean to derail your morning or anything.”

“Oh yeah, I’m good. Don’t worry about me. Thanks for the ice cream. Tell Danny I said hi.”

“I will. And, hey, way to leave out the fact you went to the Dodgers game with this sexy guy.”

She holds her phone toward me and I squint to see what the big deal is.

Brian has apparently uploaded our selfie from last night’s game to social media and checked us in together at the stadium. Between his smile and the glow in my eyes after a few beers, we look “Facebook official.”

“‘Behind home plate. Ain’t a bad way to watch the Dodgers game,’” Monica narrates Brian’s caption. “Hey, wasn’t this guy in Luxe LA with me a while back? He looks familiar. Anyway, will there be a second date? He’s clearly into you, Char. Behind home plate, eh?”

I roll my eyes and dismiss the thought that maybe she and Casey are on to something with their in-sync seating observations.

“Relax. He’s just someone who knew Decker and was nice enough to invite me to a Dodgers game because he had a spare ticket he didn’t want to waste.”