“That’d be nice. Thanks, Josh.”

Shit. He made the coffee, asked her a few questions about her life, tried to pay attention to her answers, rather than the envelope, which seemed to pulse as if it had a heartbeat.

“You must want to read that. I’ll get going,” Sarah said.

“Oh. Yeah. Okay. Um . . .” He never really knew what to say around her. “Thanks, Sarah.”

“You’re welcome. See you soon.”

He went to his office, leaving the letter there on the counter, and forced himself to concentrate on microscopic fibers and electrical impulses. He set the timer so he’d work until five p.m. Only then would he reward himself with the letter. With Lauren’s voice, her words, her presence.

When the timer went off, he leaped out of his chair. Tidied up the apartment, walked Pebbles, got himself a glass of wine—pinot grigio, and yes, it was sweet and girly, but he was a novice drinker still.

Then he went into his study, got the box that contained the other letters, and read them in order—the first one telling him her plan and sending him to the grocery store; the second one instructing him to have people over; the anniversary note; the third letter, which led him to Radley and a better wardrobe; and the fourth, which had him attending beginner karate classes.

And finally, his glass of wine half-gone, he rewarded himself with the latest missive.

A minute later, he put it down, oddly . . . irked.

It wasn’t as long as the others. It wasn’t as sentimental or funny or personal. It was . . . bossy. Brisk, as if she had better things to do.

Hi, hon! Listen. It’s time to get rid of the couch and our bed. In other words, places we had sex. You can’t have memorial sex spots forever. “This is where I shagged my dead wife.” No, Josh. Besides, every time you look at those, I bet you picture me, sucking on oxygen and being sick. So give the couch to the community center (don’t tell them about the sexy times) and donate the bed frame to the Habitat for Humanity store. You may as well donate my clothes while you’re at it. Don’t be that creepy loser who keeps all his dead wife’s stuff, okay?

I have to go for now, but another letter will be coming, I hope.

I love you, Joshua Park.

Lauren

He’d waited a month for this? This was more like a list of chores than a love letter from his dead wife. She may have been sick when she wrote it, of course. Maybe she’d been tired, or even in the hospital. Maybe he was being a petty asshole.

But still. He needed those letters.