She hesitates and turns back. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“I have no idea. Apparently I have a job here. But besides that, I don’t know. Why?”

She laughs, and then says, slowly, “It’s Clare’s birthday.”

“Clare is…”

“Oh—my daughter. She’s turning five. If you want to come. If you’re busy, it’s fine, but … yeah. It’s at eleven. Kiera’s invited too, of course. I think she knows that. No need for gifts. We’ll have food and drinks and some music. It should be a good time.”

It’s a hint of forgiveness. I’m well aware of the gravity of the moment, even if I do want to play it cool.

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” I say. “I can’t wait to meet her. See her. I don’t know.”

She gives a small shake of the head. “Right. Okay, well, I’ll see you then.”

And then she’s gone. I can’t believe I’m able to let her go, but I have no choice.

The magnificent weight of the encounter hits me as I sit there in the aftershock. It’s so big, so unknowably peculiar to have seen her again that I can hardly believe I was able to do anything but rub my eyes and gawk at her.

It’s how our brains work, I guess. We come up against the strange or unexpected, and we adapt. I got used to being famous. I got used to living in California. I got used to being without Aimee.

After she died, I would chastise myself. How had I ever gone a day without appreciating her? How had I gone a single Friday night without having her over? How had I sat silently on the other end of the couch while we rewatched Moulin Rouge! for the thousandth time instead of putting my arms around her and demanding she never leave the safety of that living room?

I pick up her empty cup, drained quickly as was always her way. I set it down and absently slide it over the condensation on the table from hand to hand.

The answer to how is unsatisfying. The truth is … we live. We can’t spend every moment treasuring the things we love. We still get mad at the dog for tracking mud through the house even though one day, we would give anything to have her muddy paws back on our white carpet. We still roll our eyes at our parents’ needy voicemails even though one day, those recorded moments will be all we have left.

My exceptionally depressing reverie about dead parents and dead dogs comes to a halt as the woman with the Great Pyrenees suddenly appears in the seat across from me.

“Dear God—hi,” I say.

“It’s nice to see you two girls patching things up,” she says.

“Oh. Um.” I smile. “Thank—thank you, yeah, it’s nice.”