There was a lunch after the service. So many flowers, despite Lauren’s wish that in lieu of, there’d be donations for the Hope Center, her favorite place in Providence, her hometown. Her workmates from Pearl Churchwell Harris, the architectural firm where she’d worked as a public space designer, were all here—Bruce, who’d been such a great boss to Lauren, crying as if he’d lost his own child. Santino and Louise, who’d gone on walks with Lauren to keep her lung capacity up. That shitty Lori Cantore, who’d asked if she could have Lauren’s office two years ago. Such a vulture, coming to the funeral when she’d been a pill in real life. He imagined grabbing her scrawny arm and dragging her out, but he didn’t want to make her the center of attention. This was Lauren’s funeral, after all.

And there were so many of Lauren’s friends—Asmaa from the community center; Sarah, her best friend from childhood; Mara from Rhode Island School of Design; Creepy Charlotte, the single woman who lived on the first floor of their building, and, Josh was almost sure, had been making a play for him since they’d met, wife or no wife. People from Lauren’s childhood, high school and college, teachers, classmates, the principal of Lauren’s grammar school.

Some people even came for Josh, having read Lauren’s obituary. Not exactly his friends . . . he didn’t have many of those. Lauren had been his friend. His best friend. Her family had welcomed him, but he was really just a phantom limb at this point. An amputation without her.

A short, stout woman with steel-gray curls came up to him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Her voice was familiar. He glanced at his mother, who gave a small shrug.

“Uh . . . how did you know Lauren?” he asked.

“I don’t. I work for you. I’m Cookie Goldberg. Your virtual assistant.”

“Oh! Hi. Uh . . . right.” Cookie lived in New York. Long Island. They’d never met face-to-face, though he’d seen her on Zoom and Skype often enough.

“Yeah, well, I’m . . . shit. I’m so sorry for you, Joshua. My heart is breaking for you.” Her raspy voice cracked, and she looked a little shocked at her own words. “Okay. I got a long drive home. Call me if you need anything.”

She turned and left.

“She works for you, but you didn’t recognize her? You only have one employee, Josh,” his mother chided gently.

“She’s out of context,” he said, sitting back down.

He didn’t eat, or maybe he did. Darius, Jen’s husband, got him a glass of wine, forgetting that Josh didn’t drink. Eventually, Josh got to hold Octavia. Was she still his niece? He was her dead aunt’s widowed husband. Did he still get to claim her and Sebastian? Was he still Uncle Josh?