“When my grandpa died, my grandma remarried his best friend six months later. She said my grandpa would have wanted her to be with him. Those two went on to have an amazing, long marriage. Just saying,” a chatty Monica blazes on as she slings her Chanel bag over her shoulder.

I don’t know Monica’s grandmother from a fence post, nor do I condone following along in her footsteps per se—ask any widow; that’s some sticky territory. But her anecdote does make me think how impressive it is that Brian and I have somehow managed to evolve from estranged to friendly given the circumstances. And it makes me wonder what other exceptions to what other rules he might turn out to be if we do end up hanging out more.

As soon as Monica clears the doorway, I pull the selfie up on my phone and see it in my feed for myself. We do look happy. We do look like friends. We do look like everything in our lives is completely normal and fine.

But a few seconds later, I think back to the last time he uploaded a selfie of us and a shiver travels down my spine.

It’s funny how basic things cease to be important when you suffer a large, personal trauma. I mean, it’s not like I had just blacked out when it came to brushing my teeth, combing my hair, or restocking the toilet paper—I knew that all of those things needed attention. It’s just that they became a very low priority. Suffice to say, the thought of a Target run was comparable to running a marathon.

But eventually I did leave my house. It may have only been two doors down to a hair salon, but it still counted. I just wanted them to wash my hair for me. But the stylist talked me into something more: hacking it off and dying it blond. Six hours and three hundred dollars later, I had a platinum pixie cut. And even though my life was not like any normal twenty-five-year-old’s, at that moment I couldn’t resist feeling giddy after spinning around in the chair and catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked different, but I felt more myself than I had since Decker died.

Later that very same day is when Brian Jackson came over to help me pack up my house in preparation for the closing. Brian must have sensed the bit of momentary confidence the transformation had given me, and in between topping off our Jack and Cokes and taping bubble wrap around coffee mugs, he snapped a photo of us. It was a selfie, just like at the ball game. He uploaded it and tagged me—because that’s just what you do when you’re a millennial with long arms and your recently widowed friend is actually having a good day.

It started with a text from Debbie. Be cognizant of your image, Ms. Rosen. Did she not like my hair? Or did Brian tell her we kissed?