Another couple, Georgetown doctors both, hustled in, and Cricket was forced, reluctantly, to abandon her beautification efforts. The pair seemed to appreciate that the service was about to start; from the sanctuary doors they blew us kisses and mouthed talk to you after.

“People leave their hometowns all the time, Daisy,” said Wallis, holding her smile and waving. “That’s a thing that happens. And anyway, I think the timing is right for you and Atlas.” She turned to me, then said bluntly: “Finally.”

“He has a girlfriend,” I reminded her as the last guests receded inside.

“In London,” Cricket said.

“How long do you think that will last now that he’s back in DC?” Wallis asked.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Our soft-spoken pastor, out of nowhere, made Wallis jump. Thankfully, he was not there to judge our unchurchy topic of conversation, only to borrow Wallis; he wanted a few words about her eulogy.

As I watched them review her script and the funeral program, I had to note that my sister wasn’t wrong. Long-distance relationships were tricky. But this was Atlas—steadfast, loyal, undaunted by things like time differences and the Atlantic Ocean. And I was just a friend. How far would he go for a lover?

While I still had Cricket beside me, I diligently tried to ask her about the caterers, the reception. But she wanted to talk about none of these things. Instead, she chatted easily about how well Atlas looked. How tall. “His shoulders look broader,” she said. “He looks fit. Was his hair always that blond?” She liked that he seemed to be letting it grow. “It works,” she said. She agreed with Wallis, that the timing for the two of us might now be perfect.

I considered walking away because it pained me to hear the hope in her voice. I’d been trying to fall out of love with the man for approximately fifteen years. But my father was gone, and she was my only parent left, so I stayed beside her, and listened, and tried to forget the feel of Atlas’s fingertips in my hair.

Two

The heart attack was so strong that the paramedics didn’t even have time to get him to the hospital. This was the first thing Cricket had said when she’d called me three months ago. I’d been cozy in my club chair by the small bay window in my Corcoran Street apartment, looking forward to reading all my usual Sunday stuff: romance novels, pages of legislation that would never pass, drafts of speeches for Miles. They call this kind of attack a widow-maker, Cricket had said. My father had been at the lake, in the cottage Grandduff had left him. He was alone. He died alone.