Josh closed his eyes. Oh, thank you. Thank you, Lauren. Thank you. He would still hear from her. She would still be with him. She was still here, in a way. He pressed the letter against his chest and bowed his head for a second. Then he wiped his eyes on his sleeve and continued reading.

I hope it won’t mess with your head, Josh. You don’t have to read them. Maybe this is really morbid.

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s not.”

You can throw them all away, or tell Sarah to burn them or whatever. But I think you won’t. I think—I hope—it might help, honey. The truth is, I’ve never been able to stop feeling guilty for being sick. This is as much for me as it is for you. The past few months, as I’ve written these letters, it’s made me feel like I can still take care of you in the only way I can now. And that makes me happy, because I love you so much.

So in every letter, I’m going to give you a job to do, and you have to do it, because (ahem) I’m tragically dead and also watching you from the GB.

The GB. The Great Beyond. Their joke. He smiled. He damn well hoped she was watching. It made him feel less alone.

Just so you know, I’m writing from the patio of our gorgeous hotel in Turks and Caicos, and you’re sleeping in the bedroom. I can hear you snoring. Even your snoring is hot. I don’t know how you pull it off, but you do. You are definitely getting a little some-some in about fifteen minutes. This vacation is the BEST. Thank you, honey, for filling my life with so many beautiful moments.

Okay, back to the present time, or your present time, I guess.

Since this is the first month, I’m going easy on you, because I imagine you’re still wrecked. If you have a new wife already, I don’t want to hear about it. But I’m picturing you in a filthy apartment, unshowered, unshaved, looking like a pathetic ninth grader trying to grow a beard.

“You’re not wrong,” he said.