While his mother-in-law had gotten her shit together that last week—that last day, especially, the one he couldn’t bear to remember—she’d been an ass pain for most of Lauren’s illness, wringing her hands, worrying about how she, Donna, would deal with this, how sad she was, how she couldn’t sleep, eat, laugh. Two wasted years of self-pity when she could’ve been helpful, strong, a comfort to her daughter. He knew it wasn’t possible to judge the level or means of grief when a parent loses a child, but Jesus, Donna had a gift for making it all about her. And right now, he wanted to think about Lauren’s letter.
So. A dinner party. His wife wanted him to throw one, and he would comply with her wishes. He’d go with people he knew well—Jen and Darius. And Sarah, he supposed.
He retrieved his phone and texted them. They were all in, which was good.
Josh was aware that he wasn’t close to many people. He’d had a couple of friends from college who’d had the same major—Peter from RISD, who was out in California, doing research at Stanford. Keung from MIT, who worked for a medical device company in London. Both had been groomsmen in his and Lauren’s wedding. He had seen Peter a couple of years ago when he was in San Francisco at a conference, before Lauren had been diagnosed.
His closest childhood friend, Tim, had moved when Josh and Tim were juniors in high school. They’d seen each other only a handful of times since then. Tim had met Lauren but wasn’t able to come to the wedding.
All three had left messages and sent cards after her death. But they weren’t here. They didn’t know the details of Lauren’s sickness. They hadn’t seen her weaken and grow smaller, hadn’t seen her skin get white and then faintly blue when her sats were low. In a way, he was glad the last memory they had of her was when she was so happy, so vital. They got to remember her that way. They got to remember him as a happy man.
Darius, his brother-in-law, was trying to be his friend, but he was so different from Josh himself. Darius was a good-natured, easygoing executive in a big advertising firm, a former football player for the University of North Carolina. He was suave and well dressed and seemed to know something about everything, never at a loss for words. Pretty much the opposite of Josh, who still couldn’t recognize a Kardashian and whose mind shuttered at most social events.
Except when he was with Lauren. She had thought he was the most interesting person on earth, and because of that, he had been. In her eyes, at any rate, and that was the only thing that mattered.
The four of them had had some great times, the two sisters, their husbands. There’d been lots of laughter before her diagnosis, and quite a bit after, too. Dinners together. Cape Cod. The holidays.
But it was different now. That was back when he was half of Lauren-and-Josh, when he didn’t feel like his skin hurt and his brain was an empty shoebox, his body sinking in tar.
Oh, fuck. A thought occurred to him. If there were four of them at dinner, it might seem a little . . . couple-ish. Jen and Darius, Sarah and Josh. And that was a firm no.
He didn’t want to give the appearance in any way, shape or form that he was interested in Sarah. Not that anyone would think that, but still, the two-plus-two of it made his stomach hurt.
Sarah dated often, but no one ever stuck. Lauren used to say she had bad taste in men because her father had been a jerk. Whatever the cause, Sarah had commented more than once that Lauren had set the bar unfairly high with husbands. And if she thought that . . . if he gave any indication . . .
He didn’t really think Sarah would assume dinner was a date, but just in case. He wasn’t great at reading social cues and vibes and body language. Lauren had always helped him along there.
He grabbed his phone and texted Sarah.
Why don’t you bring someone Saturday night? A friend, a date, Asmaa, whatever.
That would do the trick, wouldn’t it?
His phone chimed almost immediately.
You sure? It might be weird.
No, not weird at all. It will be fine.
Okay. What can I bring?
Just your date. Friend. Whatever.
There was a bit of a pause, the three dots waving.
Yeah, okay, I’ll ask a guy I’m dating. Ken. This will be our second date. If we can call it a date. That doesn’t sound 100% right. Our second meeting, know what I mean?
No, he didn’t, and he didn’t want to. He typed a quick response.
Sure. 7:00. See you then.
He clicked off the phone and tossed it beside him, earning a bark from Pebbles. “We have to find something to cook, puppy,” he said. She wagged her tail. Something he’d made before, something that wouldn’t take too much effort. That dish Mrs. Kim made, maybe—crispy fried chicken with a spicy red sauce. Mrs. Kim had taught him to cook during those two years when he was too old for after-school daycare and too young to stay on his own. The dish was pretty easy. He’d cook some rice, roast some vegetables, all easy enough.
Lauren had loved it. In fact, Josh had made it for her when they were dating, hoping to impress her. It had worked. “Dakgangjeong it is, Pebbles,” he said. “Because you asked so nicely.”
* * *
HE WENT GROCERY shopping Saturday morning, leaving an envelope of money for Yolanda, since he hadn’t been back to the grocery store since his meltdown. This time, he put in earbuds so he wouldn’t have to hear anyone and tried not to make eye contact. Got the chicken, grabbed Korean red pepper and gochujang, since he couldn’t remember if there was any in the pantry. Should’ve checked before he left the house. In the produce aisle, he grabbed a knot of fresh ginger and a head of garlic.
Cooking for Lauren, going all-organic and unprocessed, had honed his kitchen skills. As a single guy, he’d been content to order food, eat on the fly or avail himself of his mother or Mrs. Kim for home-cooked meals. But as a married man, he upped his game, and after her diagnosis, he got even better. Lauren was easy—she loved food, loved to cook when she had the energy, and ate everything except veal or lamb. “Who wants to eat a baby?” she said. “Would you want some other species eating our kids, Joshua?”
Their kids. Except there’d be no kids.
His heart spasmed, and he rubbed his chest. Don’t go there, his brain warned. Focus. When he was a kid and his mood threatened to shatter, his mother had given him a sentence to repeat over and over, to think about and distract him. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Every letter in the alphabet in that sentence. He’d chant it out loud, thinking about the letters, making order in his mind to head off the emotional storm.
Sometimes, it worked.
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
It was helping. Spicy chicken would require rice. Did he have rice? Did he have chicken? He’d buy more. Broccoli for a vegetable. How many heads would he need? Four? Ten? How many people were coming? Didn’t broccoli shrink when you cooked it? He got eight heads.