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I smiled the rest of the way home, until I got there and saw her car was gone.

Inside, my laundry was washed and folded. The apartment was spotless and aired out. And the hoodie I’d given her all those weeks ago was folded neatly on the bed.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Kristen

I parked in Sloan’s driveway and used the key under the flowerpot to let myself in, like I did every day since the funeral two weeks ago. I kept saying I had to get a key made, but I never had the time. Between trying to run Doglet Nation while taking care of what was left of my best friend, my days were full.

I had begun to consider moving back in with Sloan. I didn’t see her ever not needing me here. Her mom tapped in sometimes. She did what she could. But she had a sixty-hour-a-week job, and Sloan’s dad lived two hours away. I was the last line of defense.

The house smelled like decaying flowers. I set Stuntman down and brought groceries to the kitchen and unbagged it all. Then I started tossing bouquets. She’d be able to start her own flower shop with all the empty vases.

Sloan’s bedroom door was closed. I let her sleep. Getting her out of bed before noon was twice the struggle—I’d given it up. I used the earlier hours to do chores.

This was my life now. The second half of both our lives had begun. The before was over, and now we lived in the after. I came over every morning as soon as I woke up. Stayed until midnight. And I lived side by side with my velociraptor. We coexisted, taking care of Sloan.

I didn’t try to clean up anything that was Brandon’s. I didn’t touch his dirty clothes. I didn’t toss the beer bottle that sat in the garage. The only spark of life I’d seen from her since the funeral was when she’d lost her fucking mind on me because I’d removed and washed the almost two-month-old glass of water from Brandon’s side of the bed.

At noon, I knocked on her bedroom door. When I didn’t get an answer, I let myself in. She lay bundled in her blue comforter. I opened the blinds and then the window, hoping the fresh air would do her some good. I drew her a bath and sat on the edge of the bed to get her up.

“Sloan? Come on. Up. Let’s go.”

She groaned.

I peeled the blankets back, uncovering her. I took in her fetal position, her colorful tattooed arm tucked against her body.

I’d take her out today. Make her go to the park or for a short walk. Maybe I could get her to sit outside on the front porch.

Something.

“Sloan. Get up.” I wedged myself under her arm and hoisted her into a sitting position. With some effort I got her into the bathtub.

While she soaked, I stripped the bed and put it all in the washing machine. I washed her sheets daily, compliments of my OCD. If she was going to be in her bed for twelve hours a day, at least the sheets could be fresh. My endeavor was to keep her and everything around her clean and comforting.

As I put detergent in the machine, my cell phone pinged. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Josh texted me every day. I looked at the message.

Josh: Just say okay.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and tucked my phone back into my pocket.

He kept a running correspondence with me. It was totally one-sided. Sometimes he said he loved me and missed me. He sent me emails that read like letters, with where he was or what he was doing, like he didn’t want me to forget him—as if I could. And every day, one message was always the same.

Just say okay.

Last week he’d gone home to South Dakota for a few days, and I wondered if he was planning to move back. He had no reason to stay now. He hated his job, Brandon was gone, and I never responded to him. I hadn’t seen him or spoken to him since the funeral.

I washed Sloan’s hair while she hugged her knees to her chest. Then I got her out of the tub, towel dried her hair and brushed it into a braid on the sofa.

We’d watch a movie later. I’d choose it carefully like I did every day. Couldn’t be a love story. Nothing sad.

I put the sheets in the dryer. Then I went to make lunch, badly, and when I came back out, she was on the sofa watching the music video. The fucking music video. Again.

It was the only thing that seemed to interest her. A viral video of “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” A cover. She was obsessed with it.

I guess I should be happy that something interested her.

I set the food down on the coffee table. “Hey, are you sure you don’t want to help me with lunch next time? You’re a lot better at it than I am. I didn’t know how much vodka to put in the rice.”