“No flowers,” I say. “Neither of you will have to do a thing. It’ll be fun. Trust me.”

•  •  •

I keep my word for nearly two days, but on Monday morning, as Elizabeth and I are scrambling to leave the house—for early appointments, escape, or both, jury’s out—she hands me a sheet of paper without comment.

I glance at the list in my hands, names and phone numbers, and ask, “What is this?”

“This,” she says sweetly, as she searches the kitchen for an unidentified something, “is the guest list Bonnie just emailed me. Please note the subject line: ‘Backyard Benefit.’ She’s so glad we’re opening our home for a good cause. Apparently, we are hosting a fundraiser for the suicide prevention organization of our choice.”

“Lifeline is good,” I offer.

“I’m not calling all these people, Robert. I don’t have time. We are charging cover for a potluck dinner here in less than a week, apparently, but I’ve got fifteen midterms to grade. Summer intensives, no less. It’s too much.”

“That’s fine.” I scan the names of couples, neighbors, friends of friends, and I read Bonnie’s message. “It’s not a cover charge, Elizabeth. She says, ‘suggested donation.’ ”

“You need to invite Raymond.”

“Elizabeth.”

“I’m serious. Invite Ray and Emily. If you want to allow people to satisfy their need to support you, then you have to include him. Period.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“No. You’ll do it. I’m not covering for you anymore, and I’m not filtering their sympathy just because you can’t handle it. Enough is enough.”

“Fine. I’ll invite them.”

“Invite the kids, too.” She spins around, still searching for something.

“It’ll be done by the next time I see you,” I tell her.

“That sounds great. Where on earth is my bag?” She throws her head back. “I can’t breathe in this house.”

I hand her the oversized satchel she’d hung on the doorknob already, a bag teeming with double-spaced essays. For a moment, her anxiety threatens to spill in the form of tears, confessions, or a proper panic attack, but she sucks it back in and says, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Keys in hand, we leave through the kitchen door to the garage and head to our cars. I can’t breathe in this house, either.

•  •  •

The guest list is a priority, but when Simone shows me my book—appointments back-to-back, open to close, all on account of rescheduling for that goddamn funeral—it becomes obvious I’ll never get through the invitations today. Or tomorrow. And I promised.