I sigh. Nod. “I’m not okay. But I have to…I have to do something. I can’t just sit around feeling sorry for myself. Missing him.” I blink hard. “I promised him I would try, so this is me trying. I’m going to call my boss tomorrow and have her put me on the schedule for as many hours as she can.”

Tess sighs in frustration. “You can’t bury your grief in work.”

I shake my head. “Tess, I…I don’t know if I know how to grieve any other way. Thinking about him hurts too much. I can’t stop it, and it hurts. It’s all I know how to do. The only way I can take care of myself is by taking care of my patients. It’s what I do. It’s the only part of me that I recognize anymore.”

She handles the purse, opening it, pulling out the wad of stuffing, playing with the strap. “This is beyond amazing, Nadia. Thank you doesn’t begin to cut it.”

I cup her cheek. “You’re not supposed to thank me for a thank-you gift, silly.”

“You’re impossible.” She holds it up. “You seriously bought me a Chanel.”

“I seriously did.” I grin—my cheeks hurt from the effort. “I almost bought you a Birkin instead, but I felt like you wouldn’t have accepted it.”

“You felt correctly,” she said. “That would’ve been too much.”

“There’s no such thing, in my mind. Not after—”

“Enough, Nadia. I’m your friend. We made an oath, remember? Ride or die, bitch.”

“Ride or die.”

90 days

Thank god for double shifts.

My boss tried to talk me out of it, but I insist on doubles, as many as possible. I throw myself into work. More hours than I’ve ever worked in my life. Eighty, a hundred hours a week. I take shifts in the ER, in L&D, wherever I can get work. Anything to keep me away from home.

Tess has stopped trying to tell me to slow down. She sees that I can’t.

He was right.

He haunts that house.

I hear his voice reading to me in the living room.

I see him lying beside me, in that big empty bed. Hear him laboring to breathe.

His office is closed, always.

I keep half expecting to hear those barn-style sliding doors open, to see him come out, grinning tiredly after a long writing session.

I wonder what happened to that last story he was writing? Maybe it was all fake, a cover up for his illness and the preparations he made.

120 days

I lie in bed, at three thirty-three in the morning. Staring at the ceiling.

He died four months ago today. Four months ago, this very second, he breathed his last breath.