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Before Caleb died, I had a lot of acquaintances, mostly from his work. His fellow firefighters and their spouses. I don’t think I’m ready to hang around them as a group. It would be too big a reminder of what it was like when he was alive. And I think I’m too much of a reminder of what can happen to their spouses on the job.

“Maybe there’s a class you could join. Or a hobby you could pick up? Something you don’t have to do with someone else?” He tilts his head and shrugs.

I twist my lips, hating to admit the truth. “I’m not sure I can do it on my own. I’d probably just come up with an excuse and never go.” My cheeks heat with embarrassment.

Ansel straightens. “What if I joined you?”

I blink in surprise. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Why not?”

“I’m not going snowmobiling or ice fishing or anything like that.”

He chuckles. “I know. Caleb always told me how much you hate the cold.”

“In my defense, my dad was stationed in a lot of southern states when I was growing up. The kind of cold you guys think is normal is actually unnatural.”

Ansel laughs again. “You never know. Maybe I’ll get you to enjoy doing things outdoors in the winter.”

“You’d be wasting your time.”

“All right, I tell you what. You name it, and I’ll do it with you. That way you don’t have any excuse. I’ll hold you accountable, force you to get out there.”

Do I do this? Do I take this opportunity to get out of my own way? The idea that I can ever feel differently than I do right now seems absurd, but also really nice. And I owe it to myself and Caleb to at least try, right?

I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know…” It feels scary.

“Will you at least consider it?”

I draw in a deep breath and nod. “Sure, I will.” He arches an eyebrow, and I add, “I mean it, I really will.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

From the smile on his face—half court jester, half challenge—I know he will.

SEVEN

Collins

Afew days after Ansel’s massage, I’m at home, puttering around, not doing much of anything. I have a fire going in the fireplace, but I’m still chilly, so I head upstairs to grab a sweater.

I walk into my bedroom, and my gaze snags on Caleb’s side of the room. His things are still on the nightstand in the same place they were the night he died. I pick them up every week to dust and set them down exactly in the same place as though they’re some sort of shrine to him.

I shake my head and grab a sweater from the closet, but my vision snags on his clothing on the opposite side of mine. Leaning in, I bring the sleeve of one of his shirts to my nose, inhaling, but my shoulders sink—his scent is no longer woven between the fibers.

In the early days after his death, his scent would bring me comfort, followed quickly by despair. Right now, I don’t know what I feel. Anguish and perhaps a bit of relief. The memories the scent of him would dredge up weren’t always welcome. It felt too real. As though he should walk into the room at any moment.

It’s partially my fault. I haven’t been through Caleb’s things since he died, haven’t had the stomach to get rid of anything.

I think of what Ansel said on the massage table. Caleb wouldn’t want you to live like this.

Maybe if I can’t do it for myself, I can do it for Caleb. What if he’s looking down at me from somewhere right now, shouting for me to get my shit together? To help myself. To stop being stuck.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I wrap my arms around a good chunk of the clothes, lift them from the hanging pole, and pull them from the closet.

I’m doing this. I have no idea whether I’ll be able to force myself to get through all his clothes today, but Ansel said baby steps. This feels like more than a few of those, but even one garbage bag to donate would feel as if I accomplished something.

Deciding whether the first few items should be kept or donated is agonizing. I don’t really have a system at first, and the first shirt I place on the side of the mattress to start a donation pile wraps guilt around me. How am I willing to give away a piece of Caleb when I’ve been left with so few?