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Somehow, by sticking to text only, it was like a barrier had dropped. Maybe I should have run away after what he’d told me. But it seemed like he’d needed a friend.

And I realized, I had too.

I’d begun to tell him things I don’t think I’d ever admit to in person. Silly things, like how I used to have nightmares about Big Bird when I was a kid, which he’d thought was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Real things too like how I was worried about my Mom and Dad aging on their own in this house on Long Island. Just the other night, I’d even let a big one slip—we’d been talking about Hank and how much better he was doing since reconnecting with Casey and going to therapy. But talking about Hank only reminded me of Joe, and I’d told him I was scared Emma would grow to hate her father for how he passed. She knew he’d been sick, and she knew he hadn’t died of that sickness. She’d been putting two and two together.

I hadn’t even told Reese that one.

But Will had shared just as much. I now knew all about how he used to have a crush on his sixth-grade English teacher, and how he still blushed when he saw her around town, even though she was pushing seventy. I also knew Jill had told him she’d wasted her best years on him. Though he hadn’t said it, I knew he’d blamed himself—squarely—for not having been able to save his marriage.

The only thing I wasn’t sure of, that we also didn’t talk about, was that blog post. The one with him in it. I was fairly certain Will hadn’t seen it. He had to be making a concerted effortnotto visit my blog. If he had seen the post, he’d know the two photos of him had made him practically a celebrity, at least in my readers’ eyes. The only post that had done close to as well as that one was I GUESS I’M A WIDOW NOW.

I should have been happy about that. I’d achieved my goal of no longer being a pity-party. But even now, my frustration came back. The food was still taking a backseat. Plus, no matter what I tried, I couldn’t replicate even half the success of the SNOWBALLS post.

“I need more wine,” Reese said, holding up her glass. Somehow, she’d gotten it back from me and gone through the whole glass while I’d been thinking about Will. “It’s the only thing making me forget I’ve lost the man of my dreams.”

Guilty, and mad at myself for being so distracted, I took Reese’s glass once more and directed my full attention back to her. I was pissed at Eli too, for messing with my sister.

I was even angry at her for letting him get to her. “Reese, you barely knew the guy.”

“But that’s the thing, Mich. You’re right, I did barely know him. But I felt like I knew more of him in the few weeks we saw each other than I ever knew of Simon.”

“So, what happened?”

“He said he’s moving away. He didn’t tell me until yesterday. He said he has to take care of his family’s business. A hotel or something. But it doesn’t mean we need to break up. Honestly, I’m pretty sure he’s just scared.”

“So, he’s running away?” I asked. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

She shook her head hard. “No. I didn’t make up what we shared, Michelle. I’m not imagining it. I know I’ve had a few flings since Simon, but they’ve been nothing. Throwaway. This was bigger than that. And now…”

She slumped back on the couch as I set her empty wine glass down on the table. She’d forgotten about it, I hoped. The last thing she needed was to wake up depressed and hungover too.

“You know what he said?” Reese asked, resting her elbow on the back of the couch and leaning her head in her hand. “He said I could come and stay at the hotel if I wanted. That he couldn’t guarantee he’d even be able to see me, but he could get me a room. A fucking room.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What, so he’s paying you off?” It felt good to stoke my anger.

“I don’t know. I think he felt bad or something.”

“Well, you should take it. Use the room.”

“I don’t want to see him!”

Suddenly I was sick of it. Sick of Eli making Reese—normally so sweet and cheery—hurt so badly, and for chickening out and running away.

Sick of Will for dominating my readers’ attention.

And mine.

“You don’t even have to see him—book the room on the busiest weekend of the year.”

“Christmas?”

“Mom would die,” I said. “Pietro’s not coming home then, either.”

Reese smiled, wiping at her face with the heels of her hands. “Maybe I will.”

“To hell with these guys, right?” I said.

She laughed. It was the best sound I’d heard in a while.