I rolled my eyes. “Ha ha.”

“Seriously, Sloan, we can call it off if we need to. I mean, he’s excited to meet you but Josh can just take him out instead. I figured you might need to hit something with a bat today so I made a pi?ata full of mini alcohol bottles and Starbucks gift cards. I could be there in a half an hour.”

I rinsed my brushes in the sink. “Nope,” I said, tapping the water off them. “I’m fine. It’ll be fun.”

It would not be fun.

“Look at it this way,” Kristen said. “If you guys hit it off, you’ll end up a Copeland. Then our kids would be related. And, what if Josh’s enormous penis is hereditary? I’m just sayin’.”

I snorted. “God, I do not want to think about Josh’s penis, thank you very much.”

There was a pause on the other end. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

I nodded. “I really am fine. I’ll visit Brandon on his birthday from now on, and that’s it. It’s time I stop living my life in the past. It’s what he’d want.”

Another pause. “And the other thing going on today?”

I took a deep breath. “It’s time I move on from that too.”

Jason was in town. He was playing the Forum in LA tonight.

I forbade my eyelid to start twitching today.

This day had loomed in front of me like an impending invasion. Jason had been in the UK for the last few months, as far away from me as humanly possible. And now he was going to be less than an hour from my loft.

I’d debated several options for dealing with this event. A sleepover at Kristen’s. A trip to literally anywhere as long as it was far enough to put a couple hundred miles between us again. But when Adrian decided to visit, from Minnesota no less, and Kristen had suggested this double date, it had seemed like the universe was sending me a message. So I agreed to it, and I had about as much enthusiasm for this outing as I did for going down to check the mail.

“Okay,” Kristen said. “Well, we’ll be there in a half an hour to get you. What are you wearing? You better make an effort. I’m gonna be pissed if I talked you up for the last three days and then you show up looking half-homeless.”

“I’m wearing the red dress. I have makeup on. I’ve done my hair. I won’t bring shame upon your house.”

“Good. Don’t wear underwear. Goodbye.”

I snorted and hung up, shaking my head at the Verdugo Mountains through the window in my living room.

My new apartment was nice. It had a pool and a hot tub, and I had my own washer and dryer. It was newly remodeled too. I didn’t have things breaking all around me, which was a pleasant change. There was a dog park nearby and a Starbucks on the corner.

I was doing okay. I went to the gym, I got my nails done. I was tan. I took Tucker on walks and went to art shows and had Josh and Kristen over for dinner once a week—and I did the cooking. I did all of the things—and I was proud of myself.

I’d never gone to grief counseling after Brandon died. Kristen had begged me to go, but I had no interest in learning how to be okay without him. I didn’t want to talk about his death or share it with strangers. I didn’t need to bond with other people going through it to know I wasn’t alone. People died every day, unfairly and prematurely. My tragedy wasn’t anything special. I just wanted Brandon’s hold to let me go when it was ready to let me go. I wanted to feel that grief in its most organic way, like trying to take the edge off it would somehow be dishonoring what he meant to me. But somewhere along the line, it had let me go, and I hadn’t noticed because the tired listlessness that comes with grief had shifted into the kind that comes from losing yourself through depressing life choices—and I wasn’t repeating that mistake.

I wanted Jason’s hold to let me go. I was desperate to shake it. I wanted to do everything I could to make it stop—because he didn’t deserve any grief.

I’d allowed myself exactly one week of falling apart at Kristen’s before I pulled myself up through sheer will, found myself an apartment, and started painting. I slept. I updated my blog. I did yoga. I decorated my apartment and did things I loved—and I chose happiness.

There was a certain dullness to it, though. My “happiness” wasn’t always the real thing. Most of the time it was a fabricated, forced version that cracked around the edges if examined closely enough. But it was the choice that was the accomplishment. I’d finally found the me I’d lost before. I was strong—heartbroken, but stronger than I’d ever given myself credit for. Especially under the circumstances.

It was hard to come to terms with something that didn’t make sense, like a tragic untimely death or a breakup that came out of nowhere. How can you be at peace when you don’t know what you did to deserve it or what you could have done to make things different? I couldn’t wrap my brain around how I’d misjudged Jason to such a high degree, how I could think he was that in love with me, when clearly he wasn’t. It made me question my entire sense of self. Like finding out your hero isn’t a hero at all and you’re just too blind to know the difference.

Right after it happened, I’d had a moment of disbelief. Even though I’d seen Lola half-naked in his room with my own eyes and he’d confessed right to my face, my heart simply wouldn’t accept it, and I’d almost called him. Then I saw the picture of him with her on the motorcycle.