This was the end for us, I was sure of it. He had probably stuck around to make sure I didn’t choke to death on my own vomit. Now that he’d seen that I was alive, he’d collect his dog and leave, and I’d never see him again.

I was a disaster, damaged, a hot mess, and now he truly knew it. My living room was covered in my dead fiancé’s clothing, because yes, after two years I still had all his clothes. I’d called Jason while sloppy drunk and said God only knew what. What was there to like?

“I’ll make you some breakfast,” he said, pushing up on his knees. “Take your time.”

Then, to my shock, he leaned down and, with the biggest grin, he tipped my chin up and kissed me.

“Did you take the Advil?” he whispered, hovering just above me, looking at me with an amused smile.

“Um, yeah?”

“Good.” And he kissed me again, lingering for a moment. Then he winked and walked out of the bathroom.

“Oh. My. God,” I breathed, grabbing for my washcloth and dragging it back over my face.

I finally came out half an hour later, wearing a sweatshirt and leggings, no makeup, wrapped in a blanket and holding the bucket Jason left by my bed in a zero-fucks-given effort at not looking the way I felt. I figured I’d gone this far, why not go all in?

Jason sat waiting on the sofa. His face lit up when he saw me.

The scene was almost ironic. I would have laughed if I still didn’t feel so crappy. There was Jason, surrounded by an ocean of Brandon’s things, trying to be a part of my ridiculous, sad universe. And the funny thing was all this chaos was for him.

After our date and the kissing—which, let’s be honest here, was so out of this world it had probably ruined me for all other men—it had occurred to me that at some point, I might want to invite him home. That if I ever wanted to ask him inside, he’d spend the night in my room and use my bathroom.

Then I looked at my life through Jason’s eyes, and all I saw was Brandon. Brandon’s clothes in the closet, Brandon’s toothbrush still in the bathroom. The last beer he had, still sitting on his workbench in the garage, evaporated and empty. And I thought about what Kristen had said, about my life being a shrine to him, and I realized I was still living with another man.

And that man wasn’t ever coming home.

So for the two-year anniversary of his death, I did the healthy thing. I paid my visit to his grave, gave blood in his memory, and started cleaning. I put on some upbeat music and tried to make it something positive.

Things had started well. I packed up all Brandon’s hunting gear and brought it to Josh. That had been easy. I knew that’s what Brandon would have wanted me to do with it. Then I threw away his toiletries and cleared out the medicine cabinet.

But when I started on his clothes, the situation went south.

Some of his clothes still smelled like him, and they reminded me of places we’d been together. Like the T-shirt he picked up in Venice Beach on our second date, and the jacket he wore when we rented that cabin in Big Bear that one winter. I started a pile for a few items I wanted to keep, things that had sentimental value for me, and after a while that pile was bigger than the donation pile.

So I grabbed some tequila, had a shot of liquid courage, and started moving items from the keep pile into trash bags. And I was actually getting through it, until I found a receipt in the pocket of his favorite jeans. A receipt from Luigi’s, the stupid Italian place in Canoga Park we liked. The last place we ate together.

That’s when I’d lost it. The rest of the night was a lot of drinking, crying, and, as evidenced by Jason’s presence in my living room, drunk dialing.

I sat on the sofa with him and crossed my legs under me. Tucker jumped up next to me and put his head in my lap.

Jason smiled, handing me a weird silver package from the coffee table. “Breakfast.”

I wrinkled my forehead. “Is this…camping food?” The package read Backpacker’s Pantry, granola with milk and bananas. It was warm.

He handed me a spoon. “This is my favorite oatmeal. I buy it by the case. It’s great for a hangover. Plus, no dishes.”

No dishes was good since I still didn’t have a working kitchen sink. The top of the bag had a zipper seal. I pried it open and tasted it. “This isn’t half-bad,” I admitted. “I’ve never had actual camping food before.”

“You’ve never been camping?”

“Well, yes. But we drive in. There’s an electrical hookup and running water. We bring a cooler of food and we plug in the griddle and cook on it.”

He looked amused. “That’s not really camping. That’s hanging out outside.”

“Oh, I forgot. You’re a camping purist.” I smiled weakly, my head throbbing. I closed my eyes as a mild wave of nausea rippled through me, and I let out a breath through my nose.

“You’ll feel better in a few hours,” Jason said behind the spinning darkness of my eyelids.

“So, what else do you cook?” I asked, picking up my bag of oatmeal again.

“Grilling and boiling water for dehydrated food are about all that’s in my wheelhouse.”

“Oh. Well, if you can boil water, you can make coffee.”

“I make amazing coffee,” he said. “I use a French press.”

“Oooh, now you’re speaking my love language. Say ‘French press’ again,” I mumbled.