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was sure. He’d drop whatever he was doing if he knew I needed him. He was the personal physician for the Washington Blazes basketball team.
    My husband, Michael, was another one of the team’s co-owners.
    “Got it,” Patrick said. He glanced down at my feet, turned bright red, and scampered away. Must’ve been my toe cleavage; it tends to have that effect on men.
    I finished placing the final cupcake before checking my messages. By the time I read the frantic e-mails from Kate, who was trying to find out if Michael had any recently diagnosed illnesses like epilepsy or diabetes that we’d been keeping secret, it was already over.
    While Armani-clad executives clustered around my husband, Bob the mailroom guy took one look at the scene and sped down the hallway, white envelopes scattering like confetti behind him. He sprinted to the receptionist’s desk and found the portable defibrillator my husband’s company had purchased just six months earlier. Then he raced back, ripped open Michael’s shirt, put his ear to Michael’s chest to confirm that my husband’s heart had stopped beating, and applied the sticky patches to Michael’s chest. “Analyzing . . . ,” said the machine’s electronic voice. “Shock advisable.”
    The Italian opera
Orfeo ed Euridice
is a love story. In it, Euridice dies and her grieving husband travels to the Underworld to try to bring her back to life. Melanie the soprano was scheduled to sing the heartbreaking aria that comes as Euridice is suspended between the twin worlds of Death and Life.
    Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised me that Euridice’s aria was playing in my head as Bob the mailroom guy bent over my husband’s body, shocking Michael’s heart until it finally began beating again. Because sometimes it seems to me as if all of the big moments in my life can be traced back to the gorgeous, timeworn stories of opera.
    Four minutes and eight seconds. That’s how long my husband, Michael Dunhill, was dead.
    Four minutes and eight seconds. That’s how long it took for my husband to become a complete stranger to me.

Read an excerpt from Sarah Pekkanen’s
The Opposite of Me
.

One
 
     
    AS I PULLED OPEN the heavy glass door of Richards, Dunne & Krantz and walked down the long hallway toward the executive offices, I noticed a light was on up ahead.
    Lights were never on this early. I quickened my step.
    The light was on in
my
office, I realized as I drew closer. I’d gone home around 4:00 A.M. to snatch a catnap and a shower, but I’d locked my office door. I’d checked it twice. Now someone was in there.
    I broke into a run, my mind spinning in panic: Had I left my storyboard out in plain view? Could someone be sabotaging the advertising campaign I’d spent weeks agonizing over, the campaign my entire future hinged on?
    I burst into my office just as the intruder reached for something on my desk.
    “Lindsey! You scared me half out of my wits!” my assistant, Donna, scolded as she paused in the act of putting a steaming container of coffee on my desk.
    “God, I’m sorry,” I said, mentally smacking myself. If I ever ended up computer dating—which, truth be told, it was probably going to come down to one of these days—I’d have tocheck the ever-popular “paranoid freak” box when I listed my personality traits. I’d better buy a barricade to hold back the bachelors of New York.
    “I didn’t expect anyone else in this early,” I told Donna as my breathing slowed to normal. Note to self: Must remember to join a gym if a twenty-yard dash leaves me winded. Best not to think about how often I’ll actually
use
the gym if I’ve been reminding myself to join one for the past two years.
    “It’s a big day,” Donna said, handing me the coffee.
    “You’re amazing.” I closed my gritty eyes as I took a sip and felt the liquid miracle flood my veins. “I really needed this. I didn’t get much sleep.”
    “You didn’t eat breakfast either, did you?” Donna