How to Talk to a Widower

looking forward to bringing you.”
    “I think it’s probably for the best,” she says, and her voice is laced with something: Regret? Sadness? Anger? I can’t quite tell, but I know instinctively that it doesn’t bode well for me.
    “What’s going on, Brooke?”
    She meets my gaze for a moment and then she looks away. “Doug,” she says quietly.
    “That bad?”
    “I think so, yeah.”
    I nod, absorbing the news. Somehow, in view of everything that’s happened in the last twenty-four hours, this isn’t a terribly surprising development. I remind myself that we’ve only been on a few dates, that this is not the end of something major, but underneath the dull blanket of the morphine, I can feel something shifting, like a pulled muscle that’s going to hurt later. “I understand,” I say.
    “No, I don’t think you do,” she says. “When you wouldn’t sleep with me, I just figured you weren’t ready for sex, but it turns out you’d been having plenty of sex. You just weren’t ready for me.”
    “Because you mattered,” I say. “I swear, that’s the truth.”
    “I know,” she says, with a sad smile. “I believe you. I’m not hurt. I mean, I am, but I’ll get over it. The point is, you couldn’t be intimate with me because I mattered, but you could give yourself to a married woman who didn’t matter without any problem. And I’m not judging you, Doug. Please don’t think that I am. You were grieving and alone, she was a compassionate friend. Things happen. But the fact is, it’s just not the behavior of someone who is ready for a real relationship, and I like you too much to let you drag me through your shit with you.”
    Sometimes you walk past a pretty girl on the street and there’s something beyond beauty in her face, something warm and smart and sensual and inviting, and in the three seconds you have to look at her, you actually fall in love, and in those moments, you can actually know the taste of her kiss, the feel of her skin against yours, the sound of her laugh, how she’ll look at you and make you whole. And then she’s gone, and in the five seconds afterwards, you mourn her loss with more sadness than you’ll ever admit to. Brooke has one of those faces, but this time I didn’t pass by and mourn her, this time I stopped and we actually found something, and now I’m going to lose her anyway.
    “Can we at least be friends?”
    “Like you and Laney Potter?”
    “Jesus, Brooke.”
    “I’m sorry, that was bitchy. Just … this is hard for me.”
    “So don’t do it.”
    “I have to.” She stands up. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
    “I was doing fine until you showed up.”
    She grins sadly and leans over to kiss me softly on the temple. “I’m sorry.” She is heartbreakingly close, excruciatingly beautiful, and she was never mine to lose.
    “You know what the tragic thing is?” I say, when she reaches the door.
    “What’s that?”
    “That it was all changing. I was finally on track. Today, with you, was going to be the first day of the new me.”
    Her hand squeezes the doorknob and she briefly rests her forehead against the door. “Timing has never been my strong suit,” she says, and then she smiles one last time, and then she’s gone.
    “Fuck it!” Russ says exasperatedly when he returns and sees my expression. “No more visitors.”

    But there is one more. Late in the afternoon, there’s a knock on the door. “Don’t open it,” I say. “For the love of God!”
    “Who’s even left?” Russ says, looking up from his magazine. “Aren’t all the hot, depressing women already accounted for?”
    There’s another knock, then the door swings open and in walks Stephen Ives, the horseshit heir. “Hey,” he says, pulling a chair up to the bed.
    “Hey,” I say.
    “I heard you got a little shot.”
    “Good news travels fast.”
    “I always knew that dick of yours would get you in trouble someday.”
    Over by the window, Russ suddenly spins and hurls the wastebasket at Stephen, who falls to his knees to duck it. “Hey!” Stephen yells, jumping to his feet.
    “Now I recognize you,” Russ says with an angry smirk. “Claire’s husband.”
    “What the hell is wrong with you?” Stephen says, turning on Russ, eyes blazing.
    “Doug is having a rough day,” Russ says, standing his ground. “He doesn’t need any more shit from anyone.”
    Stephen stares at him for a moment, and then turns back to me, nodding