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newspaper.”
    Jacqueline O’Brien is the deciding factor on the biggest part of my income. I write almost exclusively for The Post , but worrying about money hasn’t made it through the fog of grief I’ve been shrouded in.
    When I just shrug, Jeremy says, “At least you have a sugar momma now.”
    Because only Jeremy would ever have the audacity to say something outrageous like that, I burst out in an uncontrollable fit of laughter which soon morphs into real tears of anguish and acute loneliness again.
    “Fuck, Jeremy, I’m such a mess. What on earth am I going to do?”
    “If you don’t want to work, that’s fine. But you should find something to occupy yourself with. Don’t just sit around all day doing nothing. It will drive you mad.”
    “I, er, I’ve been thinking about something.”
    “Spill.” Jeremy adopts only a slightly softer tone of voice than the inquisitive one he uses on his podcast.
    “I’ve been thinking about… writing to him. To Ian.” It sounds so crazy when I say it out loud. “I never even got to say goodbye. So much remains unsaid. It’s not because I believe in life after death or anything like that, but just because it would make me feel connected to him again. I don’t know. It sounds silly now.”
    “Soph, come on. It’s not silly. If it helps you, it’s great. Necessary, even. Do it.”
    I push away the plate of food I’ve barely touched. “Okay then, I will.”

Chapter Seven

    As we watch television in the living room, I work up the courage to ask her. Because all I can think of is her arm slipping on top of me again, soothing me, giving me that feeling of being loved again. I glance at Dolores while I scroll through the dozens of messages offering condolences on my phone, flipping through pictures of Ian and me, checking Facebook for distraction.
    Dolores sits in the couch with a straight back, her shoes still on, as though she’s visiting with someone instead of relaxing in her own home. I wonder if this is how she always sits or whether she’s doing it on account of me being here.
    We’re watching Grace & Frankie on Netflix, a show Ian and I tried, but didn’t think funny at all.
    “If I have to watch one more minute of this, my eyes will actually roll out of my head, babe,” Ian said, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated fashion, which was much funnier than any of the jokes on the show.
    Dolores gives a mild chuckle once in a while. She seems especially fond of the Jane Fonda character, always shifting her position a little when she’s on screen.
    I was glad when, after dinner, Dolores offered to turn on the television. She’s Ian’s mother. She’s family. But that doesn’t make it so we can easily indulge in the silence that falls between us. Most of what I know about her is what Ian told me. Before Ian’s death, I hardly ever did anything alone with her. I’m not the type to call up my boyfriend’s mother and ask her to go for coffee. Besides, Dolores works all the time. If she’s not at one of her galleries, she’s looking for new artists to represent, networking with other gallerists, or attending some high-society reception. Until Ian’s death, Dolores and I lived in vastly different worlds.
    Once the credits start rolling, I grab my chance. I’ve learned to ask things of people now without much qualms. Life-altering grief will do that to you.
    “I slept surprisingly well in your bed last night,” I begin. “I think it might have been the proximity to another person.”
    Dolores looks away from the screen and rests her gaze on me. “My bed is big enough for both of us,” she simply says. “We can watch another episode in it, if you like.”
    It’s as though, in her glance, and in her words, I can already see the tenderness she will bestow upon me again later. This thing we have between us that succeeds in, however slightly, alleviating our grief. This new closeness. This wordless understanding of each others’ needs and feelings. At