“I know. I have been. I even had a friend call the insurance broker handling the mausoleum’s claim. That was huge for me.”

I immediately regret the fact I’m free flowing my thoughts like I’m at some weird slam poetry storytelling session.

“Oh, really? That’s good. What friend?”

I tell her his name and it doesn’t ring a bell. When I describe him as the groomsman from our wedding who looked like a young Pierce Brosnan, suddenly it clicks.

“Oh. I do remember Brian, now that you mention it.” I’m sure she does. “It’s been a while since you’ve seen him, hasn’t it? How’s he doing?”

I’m not about to get into the semantics of early-thirties Brian Jackson, who literally seems like he’s tailor-made for any role in a rom-com. So I go with a short and sweet answer instead.

“He’s good. We went to a Dodgers game last night,” I say, purposefully failing to mention that he kissed me on the cheek in front of a crowd at said Dodgers game. “And he’s very willing to help me with the urn if I need it.”

“Hmm.”

“What?” I ask.

“Nothing.”

I know a Jean Rosen hmm when I hear one. “What is it, Mom?” I probe some more.

“Does a part of you feel like he came back into the picture for a reason?”

Monica’s visit made me think about this, too. Brian is a good guy who went aggressively after his dreams. He’s charismatic, handsome, and empathetic. He’s great with kids and has a quirky sense of humor. Maybe I’m not crazy for thinking if this guy showed up on Tinder, I’d swipe right in a heartbeat. But Brian isn’t just a Tinder profile. He’s my late husband’s friend. Widow Code would say it’s a lane I should never swim in—even though I kind of cannonballed it once before. But what about now? What about five years later?

“I mean, it’s possible,” I finally say. “Although we have a bit of a past that I wouldn’t mind rewriting.” I leave it at that. My mom doesn’t need to know we made out after Decker died.

“Oh, honey. We’ve been through this with the therapist before. You can’t rewrite what happened to Decker. You didn’t cause it. It wasn’t your fault. It was an accident, remember?”

Dear lord. My mom was talking about Decker—not Brian. Maybe I need to pour a drink of my own here soon.

“Yes, I remember,” I say, quelling any concern she may have that I’m doubting the facts. I’m not statistically culpable for his death, end of story.

“I just mean that you can make his final resting place final this time. That’s what I meant by him coming back for a reason. And, you know what they say, two brains are better than one, so let Brian help,” she says with the confidence of a stage mom. “Do you need me and your father to fly in for anything? Four brains are better than two!”