And then he’d asked Jen. Because Jen was Lauren’s hero, and she said, “I’d almost marry you myself, Joshua Park,” and hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, a big smacking kiss, and hugged him again.

He bought the suit just for that night, because he didn’t have one, and Mrs. Kim said it would be lucky to wear a new suit for the start of a new life. He called Lauren’s family and made the restaurant reservation for all of them, the two families, including Ben and Sumi of course, then met Lauren at her job so they could walk down to the park together.

He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. Lauren Rose Carlisle was meant to be his wife. He would’ve walked a mile barefoot on broken glass just to get her a napkin.

God, the happiness. The smugness that they’d have a long life together. Kids. Vacations, a house with a front porch and a swing in the yard.

Being widowed at thirty had never crossed his mind.

But his wife was right. The sadness shouldn’t cancel out what had been so bright and full and beautiful. Just because the cherry blossoms would fall didn’t mean you should mourn them on the tree.

“That sounds very profound, doesn’t it?” he asked Pebbles. The dog agreed, licking his face. “We should write that down.”

Instead, he stayed put, letting the sun warm his face, his arm around the dog, the seagull chilling on the post. He could open the other letter tomorrow or the day after that. Today, he would remember how happy they had been.

12

Joshua

Month three, letter number three

May

Hey there, hottie.

I want you to know that I’m fine. I’m fine as I write this letter—it’s been a good string of days, and we’re here on the Cape. What a gift this house has been, Josh! Waking up to the sound of the ocean, falling asleep under the Milky Way, being able to have all our friends and family come visit . . . Thank you for being so thoughtful and generous and wonderful.

 Your mom is here right now, making us stuffed cabbage with pork, and even though I’m sitting outside, I’m practically drooling. I love your mom. She’s so practical and . . . cool. She’s a badass, really. Please make sure you visit her a lot after I die. She’ll need to take care of you, and you’ll need her. She always said getting knocked up was the best thing that ever happened to her.

 Sometimes, I dream about my dad, as you know. But last night, I dreamed that he and I were about to have lunch with . . . guess who? Your father. He wanted to meet you, and Dad and I were going to screen him first. If he was a jerk, we were making plans to beat him up, and laughing so much. Then the dream changed, and my dad and I were in our old backyard, throwing the softball back and forth, like we did when I played in sixth grade. It was nice to see him.

 I think these dreams are reassurances that my dad will be with me when I die. So I’m not alone, okay, honey? And you know I’ll be watching over you. I’m safe and sound, just like when I wrote this. It’s just next-level stuff here in the Great Beyond.

 So this is the third month without me, and I’m guessing that you could use some new clothes. I know . . . this is not that big a deal in the scheme of mourning, but since you have no fashion sense and I’m not there to tell you to get rid of those cargo pants and you have an ass that can only be described as Justin Trudeau Level of Perfection—

Josh laughed out loud. She’d always had a thing for the Canadian prime minister.

—I want you to go shopping. At the mall.

 Oh, stop panicking! You can do it! Go by yourself, honey. No leaning on Jen or Sarah for help. You’re a wildly successful, gorgeous entrepreneur. Stop dressing like Mark Zuckerberg and/or the Unabomber.

 You know how I loved clothes. Something new always made me feel fresh and excited to get dressed. It’s a little thing, but it works.

 Good luck, honey! I love you so much.

 Lauren

 PS, Give your mom a big hug and tell her how much I loved her. Even though she already knows.

Stephanie did know. Lauren had left her a letter, too. Apparently, everyone got one—his mother, her mother, Darius, Jen, Sarah, even Sebastian and Octavia, which they were supposed to open on their sixteenth birthdays. Mara from RISD, Asmaa from the Hope Center, Bruce the Mighty and Beneficent, Louise and Santino, her coworkers. (Bruce had emailed him a couple of weeks ago to say that he’d fired that nasty Lori Cantore. Personality conflict, Bruce had said.)

So. Lauren had obviously sensed death was coming, but she never said a word. Lauren lived in the moment more perfectly than anyone he’d ever known, and she still managed to write to everyone she loved for when she was gone. Only she could’ve been that generous, that thoughtful, spending her time on earth so the people left behind would have something from her.

He would never find anyone like her again. He would never try. Once you’d had a love like that, it would be futile to try to replicate it. Everything else would be a hollow imitation.

Was this acceptance? One of the five famous stages of grief, along with anger, denial, bargaining and depression. Someone on the forum had said they didn’t follow any particular order—any one of them could punch you in the face at any time. Sure seemed to be that way, Josh thought. His knuckles still stung as a reminder of the anger phase. Sometimes he wasn’t sure he was doing this whole grieving thing the right way, thought his particular spot on the autism spectrum mixed things up.

All the more reason to follow Lauren’s instructions.

Josh looked at his watch. Six o’clock on a Friday night. Normal people would have plans. He’d had dinner with his mother a few days ago, had gone to Jen’s last night and got to read Sebastian a bedtime story. Octavia was talking a little bit—mama, dada, cup—and Jen had tried to get her to say Josh, but she just tucked her head against Jen’s neck and smiled sweetly. Both kids had pictures in their rooms of Lauren holding them. Josh couldn’t look at those for more than a glancing second, though (the denial bit, probably).