He looked at the couch where Pebbles was lying on her back, legs in the air. Got up and went into the unused master bedroom. He had made the bed the way Lauren had liked it, the pillows plumped, two rows of decorative pillows perfectly in place.

If he got rid of the bed, he could sleep in here again, next to her tree. Maybe. He sat down and picked up her pillow, hugged it to his chest and inhaled.

For a second, he couldn’t smell her, and panic flashed through his joints. No! He couldn’t lose that! He buried his face in deeper, and there it was, her shampoo and moisturizer, the faintest smell of Vicks and perfume. His heart rate slowed, and tears pricked his eyes.

Her smell would fade away. He knew that. And even though he could sniff her soap and shampoo and perfume and Vicks VapoRub, he’d never be able to smell her again.

Death was such a selfish bastard.

The dogwood tree was doing well, fertilized by her ashes. Creepy? Today, absolutely. He almost hated the tree right now; the last bits of Lauren, giving life to something other than her.

“You need to get out more,” he said to himself.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he texted Jen, Sarah, Asmaa and Donna.

I’m cleaning out Sarah’s closet this weekend. Whatever you don’t want, I’ll donate. It’s what she asked me to do.

They were all free Saturday afternoon. It would really happen, then.

He opened her closet door and ran his hand over her dresses and sweaters, blouses and skirts. He picked up the sleeve of a sweater she’d particularly liked and sniffed the collar, then the armhole. There it was—the faint smell of her sweat. Of her.

He’d keep something. A pair of her pajamas.

Someday, he imagined, he might remarry and even become a father. What would he say about that rogue woman’s garment he had tucked away? These are the pj’s my first wife wore. Sometimes I smell them to try to remember her. I loved her more than I ever loved anyone, including you, punkin. Sorry!

Maybe these letters were bad for him. Maybe Lauren had been right, that it was maudlin and keeping him stuck.

But being stuck here, in his grief, his solitude . . . this was his world now.

ON SATURDAY, JEN, Sarah and Donna were all in his bedroom, pawing through Lauren’s things while Joshua held Octavia. Asmaa had to cancel; her mother needed her for something, but she asked for a blue scarf of Lauren’s to remember her by. The previously pristine room now looked garish and crowded. It was violated. Every drawer was open, her closet doors splayed, shoes littering the floor as the women did what women do—talked about clothes.