But then I’d realized how he took the time to make the sandwich, how he’d put a Hershey’s kiss in the bag with it, along with strawberries because he knew I loved both. It’d been the first of a long line of thoughtful little gestures he did for me.

He’d left a handwritten quote on my bedside table every morning for a full year.

He used to buy me chocolate muffins to share from my favorite deli.

If I was ready to go to sleep and he wasn’t, he’d watch television, but he’d watch it with no volume. He never wanted to wake me up.

“He drove me to work, and he’d pick me up if he could.”

“Yeah.” Brenda nodded, her hip brushing against mine. “He’d come home during his lunch breaks to check on me. He bought me puzzles. He always knew I loved them. Now we do a puzzle here every Sunday together.”

A new wave of grief broke over me.

She was in her sixties, doing a puzzle with her son who was thirty-one.

As if sensing my feelings, Brenda stopped and gazed at me. “It’ll get better. The first visit is the hardest. You’re going to cry probably the whole time, and when you leave, and maybe for a few days after. But it will get better. You’re grieving the family you didn’t get a chance to have. Not just him, but you’re grieving a part of yourself. It always gets better. Time moves along, and the hole you have for him may always be there, but you’ll grow layers around it. It’ll begin to heal.”

A hole. Check.

Layers around it? Maybe.

But getting better?

We turned the last corner, and she opened the door to Damian’s apartment. He sat in his living room, the television on, and as I entered, I remembered the day and the time. I knew, before walking in, that he’d be watching Reese’s basketball game, and I also remembered that I always got Damian during those games.

As he turned to look at me, I saw recognition and a bright smile broke over his face. Inside me, something clicked back into place.

This was family.

Brenda was right. It would get better. It already had.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Five days ago, I’d sat next to my ex, listening to him tell me Reese Forster’s stats, hearing the old ribbing he used to give me about my crush on Reese. I’d sat there with tears welling up, but I never let them fall. Not in front of Damian. The tears weren’t for the teasing—far from it. And they weren’t even from the pain of seeing where Damian was in his disease.

The tears were good tears, finally.

I hadn’t realized how empty I’d been without him.