When his stomach growled, he ate lunch at the bar of a small Italian restaurant and watched the Red Sox lose to the Yankees. He imagined living in a number of Victorians, so different from their—his—loft. Were the people inside these homes happy, living in such a beautiful place? Was anyone widowed, wailing on their floor the way he’d wailed?

He walked and walked, soaking up the sunshine, admiring gardens and dogs—seemed like everyone had a dog in San Francisco. Pebbles and her friendly ways would fit right in. He found himself looking at the Ghirardelli sign, and stood in line to get an ice cream cone. It was worth the wait.

“Excuse me,” said a young woman, maybe twenty, twenty-five. “Do you know how to get to the Golden Gate Bridge?” She wore a backpack and had pretty red hair. Almost the same color as Lauren’s. Her eyes were green, though, not like Lauren’s whiskey-brown. Give her a pair of contacts and a different haircut, though, and they could’ve passed for sisters.

“Sorry, I don’t,” he said after too long a pause.

“No worries! Have a nice day!” Off she went, looking at her phone, probably texting her friend that she’d just met a creepy guy.

After a minute, he followed her. He had no destination in mind, and seeing the sunlight bring out the colors in her hair, so very, very close to Lauren’s . . . it seemed like a beacon. Where was she going again? Ah, yes. The Golden Gate Bridge.

He’d never seen the Golden Gate Bridge up close. He was afraid of—

Do something you’re afraid of. He was afraid of heights.

Thoughts of the girl forgotten, Josh summoned a Lyft to the bridge, suddenly on fire to be there as soon as possible.

It was more beautiful and graceful in real life than any photo. The sun was shining, and against the violently blue sky, the bridge did seem to glow. It stretched impossibly far across the water to Marin County. Sailboats and shipping vessels dotted the water, and birds flew above the bridge, below it, between its cables.

The bridge was ridiculously high. Really. It was unnecessarily high. Surely he could skip this and have a drink at the Top of the Mark and be done with it, right? Wouldn’t that be easier? He could just . . . just . . . yeah, nope, he was already here.

Already, his heart was pounding at the thought of walking across it. Was he dizzy? He felt a little dizzy. A lot of people fell off this bridge, didn’t they? No. No one fell. They . . . they jumped.

Shit.

Sweating, he started walking. Fast. He was wearing his hiking boots—the last time he’d worn them was with Lauren when they drove up to Acadia National Park last fall, but he couldn’t think about that right now. He had panicking to do.