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“Maybe a shower would feel nice, honey,” Alfred suggests, and I scoff.

“A knife between Shane’s eyes is what would feel nice, Al.”

He puts both of his hands up and backs away, taking a seat in the chair across the coffee table and opening a newspaper to read while I wallow in my misery.

It’s been three days since Shane ghosted into a black hole of the universe.

The fucking nerve it takes to dazzle me with quick wit and gentle kindness and slow-moving gentlemanly behavior and a big dick, then rip it away with a vague text message. It’s criminal. It’s farcical. It’s fictional!

How? How is this happening to me?

Suddenly angry, I shove up to sitting and throw off the blanket Alfred just arranged. It covers Pip completely, and he starts growl-barking until he can find his way out and jump down from the couch.

Alfred lowers his paper slightly as I shove to my feet and start pacing, but seventy-two hours in, he’s starting to acclimate to my mood swings. “I opened myself up. I gave him the real me, I put myself out there, I let myself fall, Alfred. This wasn’t some fling or casual hookup. I was in it. And he was playing me. For what? I don’t fucking get it. I don’t fucking get it at all.”

Twisting my hair frantically, I form a fake ponytail and then let it fall again when I don’t have anything to secure it. Al ruffles the paper in his lap before folding it and setting it on the table in front of him. I throw my arms out to the sides, waiting for his wisdom, and he purses his lips before offering something.

“Maybe there’s a piece of the story we’re missing. Maybe there’s—”

“There’s nothing,” I refute, my voice shaking with anger. Alfred sits back in his chair and rests his hands in his lap. He knows I’m about to go on a jag without an opportunity for him to get a word in edgewise. “Nothing that could excuse this. He’s gone without a trace, in the mist without a word. I hope from here on out, his life is filled with inconvenience and bad karma. I hope he can feel my spite from thousands of miles away, and I hope every time he almost finishes his to-do lists, he adds another task. I hope his nights are hell, and his days are worse, and I hope he never feels a moment without anxiety ever again.”

“Valentina, my dearest sweetheart, I can assure you a life without you is worse than any suffering you could wish upon him.”

I pause long enough to nod. “Well. Thanks, Al. That’s really nice. But it’s not enough. I hope his pillow is always hot and he gets fleas and bedbugs, and I hope he never gets the right amount of ice in his drinks . . . and . . . and . . . and I hope he gets strip-searched every time he travels!”

“Valentina, have some tea. Sit. Take a deep breath for a minute.”

“I can’t sit!” I yell. “When I sit, I cry!” As if summoned by the word, tears spring to my eyes, and a shaky breath makes my lips quiver.

“Oh dear.”

“Yeah, oh dear. Oh dear!” I say, fully wailing now. “I can’t believe I finally fell in love with a guy and then he just left. Left without a trace, Alfred! Am I really that bad? Am I the kind of person who runs people off?” Or am I just the kind of woman men leave without explaining?

He shakes his head, but I’m pretty sure what he wants to say is that, if we weren’t at his house right now, he’d run away too.

I’m still hyperventilating when he gets up from his chair again—a big ask for a guy in his eighties—and crosses the room back over to me. My whole body shakes as he pulls me into his arms and tucks my head under his chin until all I can smell are his peppermints.

“It’s going to feel better soon, sweetheart.”

“It won’t,” I protest, my voice muffled by his neck and big heavy sweater.

“It will. And oh baby, I know it doesn’t feel like it, but the loss of someone, no matter how they’re lost, is a process. For the first little bit after my Avalyn passed, I could hardly remember how to exist without her. But as the years have passed, I’ve learned how to take care of myself. I’ve learned that life isn’t the same, but that it goes on. That led me to you. Now, I still miss my Ava, but I have a different purpose now, a different well of happiness to pump from. And you’ll have that too.”

“I don’t know how I can have anything when I have no closure, though.”

“Sometimes we don’t get it. Sometimes we just have to move on the best we can without it. You have other things to move on for, baby doll. That bagel shop. Sunnie and Cher. Your family, and that Cordone Freight gala you’ve been talking about for weeks now.”

“I can’t go to the gala!” I say. “I can barely go a minute without emotional whiplash, Alfred!”

“You’ll be surprised what a couple more days can do, my love. Be patient. You’ll feel better.”

“I won’t. I won’t ever feel better, Alfred.”

“Come on,” he orders, spinning me around and walking me through the house.

“Where are we going? Have you finally tired of this? Are you going to drown me in the pool?”

He laughs. “I’m going to run you a nice warm bath.”