“Oh! Groceries! You cooking tonight? Want company?” she said. She was very short, not more than five feet, and fast, blocking Josh’s path to the stairs.

“Yes and no. Thank you.”

“You’ve got to come down for a glass of wine, Josh. We can talk. People tell me I’m a very good listener.”

“I don’t drink.”

“Even so.” She leaned in the doorway, scanning him up and down. “You need a friend.”

“I have a dog. Excuse me.”

He got past her, unloaded the groceries and took Pebbles for a run (using the back door to avoid Charlotte). When he returned home, he showered and started food prep, blasting Prince to make it seem less lonely. Don’t think. Just cook.

When Lauren was alive, a night like this had been fun, the air charged with energy and anticipation, the room filled with laughter and instructions—Honey, grab that vase. Honey, would you unload the dishwasher? Josh, do you mind cutting the chicken? When she was alive, he was more relaxed, more competent, more present and funnier. When she was alive, he wasn’t dead inside.

For a minute, he stopped chopping broccoli and stared at the counter.

If he was very still, he could picture this as a different scene. His wife was down the hall, taking a shower. She’d take forever drying her hair and change at least twice. She’d put on makeup, because she loved makeup. He could almost hear her rustling around, singing under her breath.

“Honey?” he called. Just in case.

Obviously, there was no answer. He resumed chopping, hard. If he sliced off a fingertip, he could get out of this evening.

But Lauren had asked him to do this, so he would muscle through it.

It might be time to take up drinking.

Right at seven, the doorbell rang, and he opened the door. All four of them were together—Jen, Darius, Sarah, her friend. Their faces were somber.

“Hi,” he said.

Jen burst into tears.

Pebbles pushed past him and went right to her, and Jen knelt down, hugged the dog and sobbed.

No one said anything for a second.

“Um . . . do you want to come in?” Josh said.

“Good idea. Hey, brother, how are you?” Darius said, giving him a hug. “We brought wine.” He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder.

Shit. He didn’t have any. “Good,” he said. “Thanks.”

“We did, too,” Sarah said. “Ken, this is Joshua Park. Josh, Ken Beekman.” Ken was tall—taller than Darius, even. And thin. White guy, pale yellow hair, looked a bit like a heron, friendly-enough face. He had a messenger bag slung across his torso, and he whipped it off and put it on the floor, offered his hand and shook Joshua’s firmly with both of his. “Joshua. So sorry about your wife. Thanks for letting me come. You have a beautiful home.”