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beaten from head to toe. The muscles of my shoulders and thighs and lower back are all clenched into knots. I make an effort to relax, but the minute I loosen up a little, the tears threaten. If I ever really get started crying, I’m afraid I’ll never stop. I opt for letting the tension stay.
    The airport exit comes up. I pull over to the passenger unloading area and we sit looking at each other. Dale leans over and pecks me on the cheek. “Don’t worry about anything back home. I’ve got it.”
    “Call me when your plane lands.”
    The car door slams behind him. He turns to wave, and then he’s walking away. Something breaks inside my chest and I almost fall out of the car in a sudden rush to call him back. I can’t get any sound past the tears that are flowing now in earnest. So I just stand there, weeping. The door to the terminal opens, and I feel like if he walks through it, he’ll be lost to me forever.
    “Dale!” I barely manage to croak his name, but still he glances over his shoulder and then runs back to me. I fling myself against him, and he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me. Tight. Tight.
    Strong. Solid, like always.
    Only this time his breathing, too, is ragged, and his heart beats faster than its normal steady tempo. I’m reminded, again, of how small and selfish I have become. Callie was his friend, too, and unlike me he has never been on the outs with her. He must be grieving. Maybe sometimes I should be strong for him, instead of the other way around.
    So I pull myself together, sniffle, and edge away from his embrace. “I’m all right, really. It’s just . . .”
    “It’s just that she’s dead,” he says, softly. “You do know that grief is not only normal but also sort of expected, right?”
    I snort-laugh at that, and he uses his T-shirt to blot my tears.
    “TSA might consider that too much liquid for carry-on,” I quaver, surveying the wet patches.
    Dale grins. “Fuck ’em. You okay?”
    I nod.
    His thumb catches one last stray tear, and then his warm hand cups my chin. There’s a softness to his face and his eyes hold mine in a way that makes my insides shiver. He bends his head and kisses me. Just a gentle kiss, but his lips linger long enough to make my heart do a double flip.
    “Don’t forget to come home,” he whispers, and then I’m standing alone and cold, watching him walk away from me.

    I wake to a gentle tapping at the door. My eyes open on a strange room, morning light creeping across the floor through a crack in the window blinds. For a minute, I can’t remember where I am or what I’m doing here, and then my memory floods back. I’m in the guest suite at Callie’s Vegas house, which means she’s really dead and the funeral wasn’t some horrible dream. Whoever is knocking is not going away, so I get out of bed and pad across the carpeted floor, limping a little on feet that feel bruised as well as blistered from yesterday’s punishment.
    My room in the house I rent back home is just big enough to hold a twin bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. This room reminds me of a suite in a luxury hotel. There’s a microwave and a fridge in an alcove, and an open door reveals a small sitting room complete with a sofa and armchairs.
    The tatty sweatpants and tank top I’ve slept in look grubby and inappropriate to the surroundings, and I know my face is a mess because I didn’t wash off the makeup last night. So I barely crack the door and peer out. A young woman clad in a crisp white blouse and black slacks stands there, holding a breakfast tray.
    “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”
    My stomach lurches at the thought of food. My head feels stuffed full of cotton, my tongue like sandpaper.
    “What time is it?”
    “It’s almost nine,” she says, brushing past me and carrying the tray into the sitting room.
    That can’t be right. I’m normally awake at five. I rub at my gritty eyes and try to think, but my brain refuses to get with the