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“No one talks Nic into anything,” Libby says, straightening. “Trust me. We’ve all tried. If she agrees, it’s because she already wanted to do it. Like visiting another spiritualist after promising she’d quit.”

“How’d you find me?” I ask as I walk over.

Jin lifts his cell phone with the Find My Friends app displayed. “Forgot to turn it off this time, Nic. You’re slipping.”

“Or she wants to get caught,” Libby says, using her psychologist-in-session voice.

I roll my eyes at her. No, I donotwant to be caught. I might seem calm, but inside, I’m cringing like I’m eight again and Mom found chocolate-bar wrappers in my pocket after I’d forgotten—again—to take my enzyme pills with me. And after I swore Ineverhad snacks if I forgot the pills.

I look from Jin to Libby. From my one best friend to the other.From my brother’s husband to his ex-wife. And, yep, that’s as complicated as it sounds, but Keith has good taste in partners. It’s probably his one redeeming quality.

Okay, fine, Keith has lots of redeeming qualities. I just happen to prefer hanging out with his spouses. And I definitely prefer havingthemshow up, because they know the shame is punishment enough. If Keith were here… Well, my older brother has a knack for making me feel like I really am eight again, sneaking those chocolate bars.

“Iamsorry,” Shania says.

I wag my index finger at her. “No more of that. I messed up, and I’ll take my licks, which apparently won’t come with ice cream.” I look at them. “I suppose it’s Nicola-intervention time?”

“It is,” Libby says. “If you want to meet us after your ice cream, that’s fine. I’d just need to ask Keith to pick up the kids at school and look after them for an hour. Which is not a bad idea. Hayden is in a mood. Twelve years old and already sulking like a teen.” She takes out her phone. “Yep, I’m definitely calling Keith, whatever you decide. Then we can hold the intervention over drinks.”

“You go on,” Shania says. “I’ll catch a cab and see you at group tomorrow.”

“No, I’m driving you home.” I turn to Jin. “Meet me at my place. You can drive Libby and me to the bar, so I can have a couple of drinks. I have a feeling I’m going to need them.”

THREE

I take Shania home, then I go to my place, where Libby and Jin will be waiting. Anton and I have a condo in downtown Toronto. It was stage one of “the plan” when we got married. We’d both owned condos in less central—and more affordable—neighborhoods. We sold them for a down payment on this because I dreamed of living right in the heart of the city, where I could walk everywhere, including along the shores of Lake Ontario. We planned to live here for a few years and then flip the condo and buy a house in the country, because I’d dreamed of that, too—rural living within easy driving distance to a CF center.

We’d been on the verge of selling last fall, as the housing-market bubble seemed prepared to burst. Sell at a profit, and then rent for a few months before taking advantage of the housing dip to buy. So smart, right? Yep, it was. And now the bubble has burst, and I’m still in this condo, barely able to face getting up in the morning much less moving.

I arrive at my door to find Jin and Libby in the hall.

“You have keys,” I say with a sigh. “Bothof you.”

They don’t comment. While Libby and Jin are very different, mybrother does have a type, and it’s the sort of person who’ll happily take my condo key for emergencies or house-sitting, but will politely wait at the door instead of letting themselves in.

They are also the type who don’t comment on the boxes in the front hall, dropped off by Anton’s colleagues two weeks after his death. They’ve each separately offered once to help me deal with that, and they won’t mention it again, knowing I’ll accept that offer if and when I’m ready to unpack those boxes… and empty his closet and move the coffee cup he left on the counter that morning before work, the one he’d always only rinse out because he’d want a coffee when he got home. It sits there, gathering dust, waiting for him to need it.

Jin pauses by the hall table and silently scans the growing tablecloth of unopened mail. He knows there will be nothing urgent—I’m responsible enough to deal with all that. I mentally recite the contents of that pile as I pass it. Two cruise ship brochures I don’t need. Three subscription magazines I can’t read. And eight letters addressed to Anton. It’s the last that Jin’s looking for.

He spreads them and takes a photo, saying, “We’ll deal with these.”

He means he and Keith will notify the senders that Anton has died. I want to say I’ll handle it. I want to be able to handle it. I tried, but even cutting and pasting a prewritten blurb into an email felt like being at that roadside again.

I regret to inform you that Anton Novak has died.

I could have handled that. What I couldn’t handle were the replies that demanded additional proof. Additional proof? My husband is dead. Dead. You really think I’d lie about that?

Oh, I know people do lie about it, but that was the part I couldn’t handle—demands to prove Anton was dead, as if I wouldn’t give my right arm to say “Ha! No, I was just trying to scam you. He’s fine.”

Jin is walking away when Libby says, “Nic?”

I turn around to see her at that table, holding a letter to me. I march back, take it, and head straight into my office, where I feed it, unopened, into the shredder.

“Good riddance,” Jin mutters from the doorway.

“He shouldn’t be contacting you,” Libby says.

I don’t answer. What can I say? That I agree, but I lack the energy—or the will—to take more concrete action?