The Kims came over, hugged him. Josh stood there with the three adults who’d raised him, all helpless now in the face of his loss.

No one could help him.

“You’ll get through this, son,” Ben said, looking him in the eye. “I know it seems like you won’t, but you will.”

Josh nodded. Ben wasn’t the type to lie. Ben gripped his shoulders and nodded back. “You’re not alone in this, Josh.”

Well. That was a nice thought, but of course he was alone. His wife was dead.

“Shall we head out, then?” the older man asked. Like his mother, Ben was good at giving Josh the cues he often needed in social situations. Not as good as Lauren, though.

Panic flashed painfully through his joints. What was he going to do without her?

“Let’s go, honey,” his mom said.

Right. He hadn’t answered. “Okay,” he said. It felt wrong, somehow, leaving the church. Ending the funeral.

There was a lunch after the service. So many flowers, despite Lauren’s wish that in lieu of, there’d be donations for the Hope Center, her favorite place in Providence, her hometown. Her workmates from Pearl Churchwell Harris, the architectural firm where she’d worked as a public space designer, were all here—Bruce, who’d been such a great boss to Lauren, crying as if he’d lost his own child. Santino and Louise, who’d gone on walks with Lauren to keep her lung capacity up. That shitty Lori Cantore, who’d asked if she could have Lauren’s office two years ago. Such a vulture, coming to the funeral when she’d been a pill in real life. He imagined grabbing her scrawny arm and dragging her out, but he didn’t want to make her the center of attention. This was Lauren’s funeral, after all.

And there were so many of Lauren’s friends—Asmaa from the community center; Sarah, her best friend from childhood; Mara from Rhode Island School of Design; Creepy Charlotte, the single woman who lived on the first floor of their building, and, Josh was almost sure, had been making a play for him since they’d met, wife or no wife. People from Lauren’s childhood, high school and college, teachers, classmates, the principal of Lauren’s grammar school.

Some people even came for Josh, having read Lauren’s obituary. Not exactly his friends . . . he didn’t have many of those. Lauren had been his friend. His best friend. Her family had welcomed him, but he was really just a phantom limb at this point. An amputation without her.

A short, stout woman with steel-gray curls came up to him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. Her voice was familiar. He glanced at his mother, who gave a small shrug.

“Uh . . . how did you know Lauren?” he asked.

“I don’t. I work for you. I’m Cookie Goldberg. Your virtual assistant.”

“Oh! Hi. Uh . . . right.” Cookie lived in New York. Long Island. They’d never met face-to-face, though he’d seen her on Zoom and Skype often enough.

“Yeah, well, I’m . . . shit. I’m so sorry for you, Joshua. My heart is breaking for you.” Her raspy voice cracked, and she looked a little shocked at her own words. “Okay. I got a long drive home. Call me if you need anything.”

She turned and left.

“She works for you, but you didn’t recognize her? You only have one employee, Josh,” his mother chided gently.

“She’s out of context,” he said, sitting back down.

He didn’t eat, or maybe he did. Darius, Jen’s husband, got him a glass of wine, forgetting that Josh didn’t drink. Eventually, Josh got to hold Octavia. Was she still his niece? He was her dead aunt’s widowed husband. Did he still get to claim her and Sebastian? Was he still Uncle Josh?

Sebastian, age four, wailed, inconsolable despite Darius’s best efforts. The kid was just old enough to understand Auntie Lauren was never coming back. Josh envied him. No stiff upper lip there. He was crying the way Josh wanted to: unfettered, anguished, horrified.

“Call if you need anything,” said Creepy Charlotte, her pale blue eyes eerie. She handed him a piece of paper. Her phone number, he assumed. As she moved in to hug him, Josh stuck out his hand at the same time. Awkward. Lauren would’ve fixed it so it would’ve been funny, but it stayed awkward. Charlotte lifted an eyebrow, but Josh wasn’t sure how to interpret that. He took the paper and put it in his pocket, then sat back down, but the paper rankled. It felt like betrayal, so he wadded it up and tossed it under the table with a silent apology to the cleaning staff. Those people, he pictured them saying. Throwing trash on the ground like animals.

He bent over and looked for it. “What are you doing?” his mother hissed.

“Stephanie,” he heard a woman say. “I’m so sorry! She was a lovely girl. Um . . . where’s Joshua?”

The wad was just out of reach. He stretched, heard his chair fall over behind him, grabbed the paper and stood up. Righted the chair. “Hi,” he said to his mother’s friend.

“Joshua, you remember Nina, right? From the lab?”

His mother had worked at Rhode Island Hospital’s lab for thirty years. He didn’t remember this woman. “Yes,” he lied, shaking her hand.

She pulled him in for a hug, and he winced. “So sorry for your loss, honey,” she said.

“Thank you.” He stood there another minute, then turned and went to the bathroom to throw out the paper. He didn’t want Creepy Charlotte’s number, or anyone’s number. He just wanted his wife not to be dead.

The face in the mirror was nearly unrecognizable. He lifted his hand to make sure he was really there. This had to be a dream, right? Groping under a table for a piece of paper, all these people he didn’t quite know . . . next thing would be he wouldn’t have any clothes on, and then he’d wake up next to his wife. He’d hold her close and breathe in the smell of her hair and she’d smile without opening her eyes.