She said yes.

She opened the door a few minutes later, wearing a David Bowie T-shirt and running shorts. Her apartment was somewhat untidy and unremarkable—piles of papers on her desk, a few coffee cups scattered about, mail on the counter.

“Hey, Josh,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I saw a psychic today,” he said without preamble. “She said Lauren showed her a person who wasn’t a sister but like a sister. Purple sparkly dresses at a dance recital or something.”

The color drained from Sarah’s face. “Jesus, Josh. A little warning next time?” Then she turned away. When she spoke next, it was a whisper. “It was the eighth-grade talent show. We wore purple sparkly dresses and danced to Soulja Boy. ‘Crank That.’ We were awesome.” She took a shaky breath. “The psychic knew that?”

“Apparently. She said to tell you Lauren is still . . . with you.”

Sarah put both hands over her face and started to sob.

Hug her.

He did. She hugged him back. He felt something loosen inside him and, after a few seconds, became aware of the fact that he was crying, too.

It wasn’t horrible.

In fact, it felt kind of great, just to cry with someone who had loved Lauren, too, and not worry, just for a second, if he should be doing something different. No. Hugging was . . . it was okay.

“Oh, Josh,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry for the two of us.”

The thunderclap took them by surprise, and they jumped apart. Josh straightened, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. Sarah got a tissue and blew her nose.

“You want to see a movie?” she suggested, and for some reason, that sounded perfect to him.

“Something violent,” he said.

“A war movie.”

“Horror,” he countered.

“Whatever you want, pal. You just talked with your dead wife. You get popcorn and soda.” She smiled at him, and he felt himself smiling back.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he said. “You’re a good friend.”

Almost to his surprise, he realized it was true.

The psychic had mentioned a woman in his life who would be his second wife. Someone he already knew.

He wasn’t ready to think about that, though. Not today. Maybe not for a long, long time.

But it was there just the same.

22

Lauren

Twenty-five months left

January

Dear Daddy,

Help me. Oh, Daddy, please help me. Please don’t let this be true. I’m so scared. Please help me, Dad. Please let this be wrong.

Lauren had had three appointments with Dr. Bennett, the pulmonologist. Three appointments in three months, with a few reschedulings because of snow and the holidays and the thrill of making new traditions. They had had the Kims and Stephanie over for Pepero Day, a sweet Korean holiday that seemed to exist solely to celebrate friendship. Then there was Thanksgiving—the big meal at Jen’s, including Stephanie, then dessert at the Kims’, because all four of their kids had been home and had wanted to see Josh and meet her. They had a brunch that weekend with all their local friends, and Lauren had felt so happy and grown up, cooking and cleaning for her former classmates and colleagues, showing them their beautiful home.

Then it was Christmastime, and they had their first major fight over Josh not going to her office party. They made up, of course, went on the holiday stroll and celebrated Jen’s birthday. On New Year’s Eve, they hosted a party—Sarah and her date (who passed out on the couch before nine p.m.), Louise, Santino, Bruce and Tom, Mara, Asmaa and her honey, Jen and Darius. Even with the drunk guy, it had been a blast, and they’d gone up to the rooftop to watch the fireworks. The Kims had had them over for lunar New Year, another big celebration, and had invited Lauren’s mom, too, which was awfully nice.

In other words, it had been easy to forget that she was a little out of breath for no apparent reason.

But now the holidays were over, and Lauren had no more excuses. She kept telling herself not to be nervous. They’d already said it wasn’t cancer. No sign of a tumor on her chest X-ray, thank God. But they wanted an MRI now, too.

She was fine, she reminded herself. Young. Healthy. Blissfully happy. Sex at least three times a week, usually more. Yoga classes and the gym on the first floor. Did she get out of breath? Of course! That was the point.

She was just . . . tired. She had asthma, and maybe chronic bronchitis. If she felt weary and heavy sometimes, wasn’t that just because she worked out? It was a good sign, damn it.

It was that intern in the ER who’d first given her that tremor of fear. That pause. No one wants a doctor to pause before reassuring you.

But she’d been tested for a lung infection. A virus, though she tested negative for everything they could test for. Low-grade pneumonia on top of asthma? Chronic sinus infection with postnasal drip and acid reflux?

They couldn’t quite pin it down.

“Just a few more tests,” Dr. Bennett said, and Lauren felt a flare of fear and anger. Diagnose me or tell me I’m healthy, for God’s sake, she thought, her face reddening. “This is a tricky case,” the doctor continued. “I want to be sure we get it right.”

Not super reassuring. “I’m really fine,” Lauren replied. I could like you. Give me a clean bill of health, and we’ll be great friends, I promise.

“Outpatient Testing will call to schedule you in the next day or so,” Dr. Bennett said. “If you feel worse, call me right away.”

“I’m fine. I feel great.”

“We’ll talk soon.”

Shit. No martinis with Dr. B., then.