Counting this letter, there were only a few more waiting for him. After that, she’d really be gone.

Nine months since she died. How could he have lived this long without her? It seemed like nine years, nine decades. Every memory was so precious, and yet . . . his throat tightened to think about it . . . every memory also receded further into the distance. Sometimes, he felt like he was remembering the memory, not the actual moments—remembering the times he remembered their wedding, going over every minute they’d spent together . . . well, except her last day. That one could stay suppressed for eternity as far as he was concerned.

He wanted to think of her, in real life. He wanted to hear her voice, smell her scent, not just describe it to himself. He’d watched the movies they’d taken of each other. Every one. He watched their wedding video at least a hundred times. He scrolled through thousands of their pictures on his computer.

He looked like a different person in those photos. He looked so . . . young. Even in the pictures where she had a cannula, or she was in the hospital, he looked happy, assured and in love. Dazzlingly in love, confident that he was loved back just as much.

At least he had given her that. All his love, his whole heart. He’d known such happiness, such love every damn day. And these letters reminded him of that.

With a deep breath, he opened this one reverently, slowly.

Hello, honey!

How are you? I wish I knew what time of year it was so I could give you better things to do . . . you know, like if I knew it was winter, I could say, “Make a snowman with some random children!” (Except you might get arrested on suspicion of being a pedophile, so maybe not that.) Or if I knew this month was May, I could say, “Plant a garden!” (Better! Make sure you do that in May!)

Last month’s “task” was lame, and I’m sorry for that. I was trying to be well-rounded and wanted you to do something related to your career. It sounded like the advice you’d get in a fortune cookie. “Do something you’re scared of.” Lame, Lauren! (But if you did, I’m SO PROUD OF YOU!)

So this month’s is better. But also worse. But better. You ready? You are? Good.

Kiss a woman. Not a peck on the cheek to Jen or my mom . . . kiss a woman not related to you by blood or marriage.

Josh felt abruptly ill.