I pop in my earbuds, leash up Leno, and make a quick left at the corner toward a neighborhood coffee shop with a dog-friendly walk-up window. But just then, like the way your mind spins thinking about whether or not you left your flat iron plugged in, I second-guess if I locked the door to my apartment. Involuntarily, I tighten up Leno’s retractable leash and head home.
In the lobby, I obsessively press the up button for the elevator three times in quick succession. While waiting, I visualize how easy it would be for thieves to jack my computer, my one pair of ill-fitting-but-stylish Louboutins, even the fifty-five-inch flat screen TV. But what if they take the urn?
Dings from faraway floors indicate the morning churchgoing rush is clogging up the shaft. So I scoop up Leno like he’s a frozen grocery store turkey and head straight for the stairwell. There’s no choice but to take them two at a time. I need to get back to my apartment.
Once at the fifth floor, I fling myself into the hallway and erupt in an all-out sprint to apartment 518. Leno must be getting whiplash. I grab the handle and it flies open with ease. I left it unlocked just as I had feared. Except once I’m inside, nothing seems to be missing. There aren’t thieves robbing the place. There’s just one man sitting there.
“Hey, honey. Can you please tell my mom I’m back and I’m okay?” Decker says from the couch while watching SportsCenter.
At the mere sound of his voice, soft-spoken and genuine, I spring up in my bed and put my hand to my chest to calm my heavy breathing.
I reach for a glass of water on my nightstand that I don’t remember getting and chug the room-temperature liquid.
The door to my bedroom is cracked open and Leno isn’t in my bed anymore, which means he’s probably sitting in the foyer in front of the door, his way of letting me know he’s ready to go outside for a morning potty walk. But I’m not ready for anything other than a triple-shot latte and an Advil or two. I toss my sweaty covers off, put on a robe over Decker’s USC sweatshirt, and head toward the Keurig in the kitchen.
“Morning, Char. What’s good?” Casey is eating a plate of scrambled eggs at the kitchen counter.
I rub my eyes and realize I never took my contacts out last night. I’m sure I look like a bloodshot mess. Good thing Casey doesn’t care how I look. Or that I just borrowed her fork and shoveled a scoop of her breakfast into my mouth.
“Coffee. Now,” I say with my mouth full of rubbery eggs.
“The Keurig is tits up again. We need a new one. But I brewed a regular pot over there. Help yourself. Are you okay?”
I pour a generous serving of blond roast into a mug monogrammed with the letter C on it. Casey’s mom got us a set of four for a housewarming gift when we signed our lease five Octobers ago. It’s cute how we can both use them interchangeably since our first names start with the same letter, but it’s clear Casey uses them most often from her plum-colored lipstick, a shade she says is called “Black Eye,” which has permanently stained the tan ceramic rims.
“I’ve been better.”
“Well, I’m sure the middle-of-the-night wine chaser probably wasn’t the best choice,” she says, nodding in the direction of the empty bottle on the counter.
“I’ll replace your wine, I promise.”
“Can you get me a bottle of rosé when you do? I’m not basic enough to buy a bottle myself, but I’m really in the mood for it. By the way, what are you up to today? Some friends from the expo are going to the beach if you—”
“Can’t,” I say, holding my hand up to signal she should save her breath. Since my little escapade into the kitchen led to a full-blown fucked-up dream, I’ve come to realize that this normal day of rest is going to be anything but. “I’ve got a lot on my plate.”
“Hey, I was wondering, can I see a picture of him?”
Of all the questions Casey has asked so far since Decker’s return, this one hits me the hardest.
“A picture?”
“Yeah. I’m curious what the guy who did it for you looked like.”
If I do this, if I show her a picture of Decker, it’ll be the most vulnerable I’ve been with anyone who isn’t family, a therapist, or a stranger from a support group. But I’ve lived with Casey for five years, and if anything, she’s been the constant in my life since Decker’s death. Always there to offer a pick-me-up bottle of wine (which I normally accept) or funky new eye shadow to try (which I normally decline). I should meet her in the middle.
A warmth washes over me—perhaps because I’ve just slowly shut the fridge door like it was made of a thin, fragile sheet of glass—like the way you pull thick covers over your cold shoulder at night. It feels comfortable. It feels safe. Hell, I just saw him in my dream. Maybe seeing him on my screen won’t feel as foreign. What’s there to be afraid of?
“Okay. Gimme a sec,” I say, pulling my phone out of the pocket of my robe.
I pause, briefly, thinking how to navigate the ask. I could visit his Facebook page. It’s still there, along with all the photos of him, us, and everything in between. But I don’t go to that anymore. Not after I mistakenly decided to read through all the messages people left him on his wall after he died, then again on his birthday. They wrote these things to him as if he were still alive, as if he could read them. I guess it was sweet. But to the one person who wished more than anyone that Decker was still alive, it wasn’t sweet. It was scary. I’m not going to let my heart get tricked like that again.
So instead I choose to show her a photo of the two of us in Punta Cana that I keep in my “favorites” folder on my phone. We went there one time on a whim—a quick Friday through Monday getaway. We weren’t living together yet, so getting an email from him in the middle of my workday saying he booked the Travelzoo deal turned me into that cliché lunatic you see in public cheesing at their phone. On the last day of our vacation, after two too many margaritas in, he convinced me to rent a Jet Ski. Decker drove fast—really fast—and I...I held on for dear life and screamed bloody murder, white-knuckling him from behind. Admittedly I was having an absolute blast, and at one point he took his cell phone out of its plastic bag and we fired off a few quick selfies on the open water. When I look at him in that picture, a few crow’s-feet surrounding his smiling bright blue eyes, I am reminded of all the ease with which he navigated this complex world. His worries capped at appreciating the moment and doing things that scared him so he could learn and grow.
“Holy shit, he’s hot,” Casey exclaims after I tilt the phone her way. “Wait. Is that kosher to say about a dead guy?”
“Yes, it’s fine.” I sort of smile as I watch Casey awkwardly navigate what is kosher or not in a situation like this. Ironically, that is the same conundrum I have faced since he died. I may be a widow, but I don’t have the rule book. In fact, I’m pretty sure there isn’t one.
And, yes. Decker is—well, was—hot. He was a six-foot-three lacrosse player. All in all just your healthy Cali-boy who liked french fries in his burritos and occasionally called in sick for a surf day when the waves were just right. I remember thinking, They don’t make them like this in NYC.
I’m already ready for a refill of my coffee when my eye catches a dish towel draped on top of the stove.
“Why is the towel like this?” I ask as I look over to the oven.
“Like what?” Casey responds.
“Crumpled on top of the stove. Did you do that? Did you put it there like that?”
When Decker used to wash his hands at the kitchen sink, he would use the decorative dish towels I threaded through the handle of the oven to dry them off, but never put the towel back on the handle. Instead, he’d leave the expensive Anthropologie linens I was gifted at my bridal shower just strewn about the top of the stove. Not only a fire hazard, but his most signature, lovingly annoying habit. It is truly as if someone has broken in here. Someone I once knew—was married to, actually.
“No. Not that I know of. Why? Is something wrong?”
Upon closer inspection, I see there’s a brush of red lipstick, along with some wine, right through the middle of it. It matches the color Monica had me swipe on at her wedding mixed with a bit of pinot noir. I’m the culprit—and I must be losing my mind, thinking this was some kind of a sign that he’s back and he wanted my attention.
I thread the cloth through the handle, where it belongs.