“I grabbed you a pair of shoes just in case you want to see yourself without those, uh . . . atrocities.” Radley slid some brown loafers under the closed door.

Josh put the shoes on. Looked in the mirror.

With his haircut, and the undeniably modern outfit, he looked different. He didn’t look like the hermit genius workaholic with no life, as he used to be, or the stunned-stupid mouth-breathing widower he’d become.

He looked . . . he looked like the guy who’d married Lauren Carlisle. He looked like her husband again.

The pain hit him in the stomach, and he bent over. A keening sound came out of his mouth, and he tried to cover it. Tears rained out of his eyes without warning, and his chest was crushed by the grief.

He could’ve had years more with her.

“Joshua? Joshua? Are you okay?” came the salesperson’s voice. The door handle jiggled.

The mirror showed his face, wet from tears, creased in agony, scared, hopeless. How was he supposed to live without her for the rest of his life? His knees gave out, and he sank to the floor, clamping his arms over his head.

The door opened, and Radley stood there, a key in his hand. “Oh, God, you are so not okay. What can I do? Should I call 911?”

“My . . . my . . .” He could barely choke the words out. “My wife . . . died.”

“Holy Mary. Oh, man, that sucks.” Radley sat on the little bench and put his hand on Josh’s shoulder. “How horrible.”

It was so embarrassing, crying here, almost funny if it weren’t so utterly, wretchedly awful. He was full-on sobbing now, his arm across his face, tears soaking into the unpurchased shirt. He didn’t want to look like Lauren’s husband. He wasn’t anymore. He had no right to look like Lauren’s husband. He didn’t deserve to, not when he’d failed her. Not when he’d given up seven years with her.

Don’t be a loser.

Her voice was so clear his head jerked up to see if she was there.

Of course she wasn’t. He choked on another sob, then another, this weird, hiccuping thing that he was powerless to stop. He was a loser. That was the problem.

“Can I try this on?” asked a guy with an impressive beard, holding up a shirt.

“Can’t you see he’s having a crisis?” the salesperson snapped. “Jesus! Some compassion, please? Come back tomorrow, and I’ll give you forty percent off.”

“I’m sorry,” Josh managed.

“Don’t apologize. Here.” Radley—Ripley?—got up and left the dressing room and returned a second later. He held a bandanna in one hand, a bottle of water in the other. “Wipe your face, you poor thing. I’ll lock up.”

Josh felt a hundred years old. He hauled himself onto the bench and sighed. The hiccuping had stopped.