“Yeah, I made it. Had the time. Mammy made the soda bread. Don’t tell her it’s for Meg.” He winks at me and I smile.

Kiera splits the soup into three oversized mugs and puts the bread and butter on a wooden cutting board. She opens a bottle of red wine and pours it into three juice glasses.

I sit in the middle. Kiera is on my left, resting her bowl on the armrest. Cillian sits on my right, holding his soup by the mug handle and leaning forward to eat it. I put mine on a pillow in my lap.

I feel overcome with a deep gratitude for the moment. For the out-of-season Christmas lights that are slung around the room. For James Cameron. For the embracing nature of borrowed boy clothes.

But mostly for Kiera and Cillian. Kiera heard more than I ever even told to a therapist. And she still likes me after hearing it. She came over and hugged me. She told me it wasn’t my fault. She stayed with me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.

And Cillian. He doesn’t even know what’s going on, but when Kiera asked him to come—apparently she told him it would be good if he could stop by, maybe bring some comfort food—he made food and came. When he saw that I was upset, he didn’t need to hear anything about it. He was willing to sit down and watch a three-hour movie that I am well aware he doesn’t want to watch for the sixteenth time.

They’re here. And it doesn’t feel big. It doesn’t feel intense. It feels nice, right, small, cozy, real.

I blubber and when they turn to me, I say, through yet more tears, “You guys are so nice.”

They exchange a bewildered look. “She’s lost her mind, but it’s kind of nice, isn’t it?” asks Kiera.

Cillian smiles at me, then rubs my knee for a moment before returning his attention to the screen.

I try not to speak along with the movie, but when Cillian catches me mouthing Rose’s line I believe you are blushing, Mr. Big Artiste. I can’t imagine Monsieur Monet blushing, he gives me an indulgent shake of the head and manages not to seem the least bit irritated with me.

A steady stream of tears falls out of my eyes unbidden for most of the movie, and I feel that I know deeply now that the grief doesn’t have much to do with Rose and Jack’s fated love story. I know it’s about Aimee’s and mine.

It’s about all of this. The real reason I’m crying is because I am already mourning this life. I am afraid that I’ll have to say goodbye, and I don’t know if I can live through it all over again.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN