Trying to avoid alcohol was becoming harder every day. Working on the drinking game app for Barley Legal meant I was constantly thinking about alcohol and all the ways it could make life fun. Thankfully, Houston Cavanaugh, the owner of Barley Legal whom I barely remembered as “the beer guy” who provided the beer for my wedding, would be arriving soon to drop off the merch box Dylan was unable to deliver himself.

I could have picked up the box myself, but Frank Winslow — Barley Legal’s marketing director — kept insisting there was no need. He would drop the box off on his way home from work. That was four days ago.

I was beginning to wonder if maybe I was being strung along until they found out how to tell me they no longer needed my services. Maybe they’d found a software developer fresh out of college who was willing to work as an unpaid intern. Then, Dylan woke me up this morning with a text message at six a.m., telling me that the owner of the company was going to deliver my inspiration box himself. At 6:30 a.m.

I hadn’t jumped out of bed that fast since my alarm failed to go off on my wedding day. I opted to skip the shower in favor of quickly splashing some water on my face, then I pulled my messy hair into a semi-presentable bun. I brushed my teeth and changed into a pair of skinny jeans and a slouchy black V-neck sweater. I wanted to look stylish but comfortable, like this is how I dressed to lounge around the house. No way would I ever wear ripped leggings or hole-y socks, or Jack’s enormous OSU hoodie that almost covered my knees.

As I pressed the power button on the coffee machine, the doorbell rang. My heart raced as I crossed the living room, cringing as I realized I’d forgotten to put away the wedding album, which sat in the center of the coffee table. Hopefully, he wouldn’t want to come in.

Pulling open the door, I put on an almost manic smile. “Hi!” I said cheerfully.

It wasn’t just Houston standing on my porch. On his right, stood a redhead in a black leather jacket and skinny jeans that showed off her killer curves. The kind of curves I used to have before food became tasteless and eating became joyless. She was gorgeous, as was Houston. If Jack and I were still together, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed that. But now that I was alone, I envied them.

Houston held out his hand. “I’m Houston and this is my wife, Rory,” he said as we shook.

“I’m Laurel. I actually remember you from my wedding.” I turned to Rory and offered my hand. “But I don’t think we’ve met. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rory.”

She shook my hand as her red lips curved into a smile. “No need to be so formal. Can we come in?”

“Of course!” I said, stepping aside for them to enter.

“Go ahead, baby. I’ll go grab the box,” Houston said to Rory, then he headed toward the blue SUV parked at the curb.

Rory smiled as she entered. “I love this house,” she said, looking around the living room. “I love the old Craftsman houses in Southeast. I miss living in Portland.”

“Thanks. It’s not really my house. Well, it was my mother’s… until she died.”

She frowned as she stood next to the sofa. “I read about that. I’m truly sorry for your loss. No one should have to go through that. I… I lost my best friend in college to suicide. Houston’s sister Hallie. He was the one who found her. He still has nightmares about it.”

She whispered the last sentence as if it were a dirty secret, but I knew she didn’t mean it that way.

Men dealt with grief much differently than women did. Rory probably knew, just as I did, that most men didn’t like to admit weakness. To them, the uncontrollable emotions that came with grief were a flaw, a chink in the armor that must be smoothed out. And anything that was beyond repair should be kept hidden.

Sort of the way Jack and I had hidden the extent of the problems in our marriage from the people who knew us best. But based on the uncomfortable conversation I had with Jack’s mother last week, Jack didn’t feel the need to hide our dirty secret anymore.

Houston entered through the open front door, carrying a cardboard box in one of his enormous arms and a silver gift bag in his other hand. He set down the box on the floor and closed the door behind him. Rory took the gift bag from him and spun around to face me with a huge grin on her face.

She held out the bag to me. “Dylan told us you’d be turning thirty next week, so we decided to bring you a gift before we left on our trip to New York. Houston tells me turning thirty is a very big deal.”

Houston shook his head. “You’ll get there soon enough,” he said, then he turned to me. “Go ahead. Open it.”

I stared at the silver bag, unable to hide my trepidation. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m really not looking forward to this birthday.”

They both laughed as Rory jiggled the bag in front of me. “Go on.”

I let out a soft sigh as I grabbed the handles of the bag and peeked inside. “What?” I whispered, unable to contain my surprise as I reached in and pulled out a creamy white box with gold lettering. “Where… why? I mean… what?”

I was speechless, completely incapable of stringing together a coherent sentence.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you not like it?” Rory asked with a note of disappointment in her voice.

I looked up at her, shaking my head adamantly. “No! That’s not what I meant. I’m just… flabbergasted to be honest. This…” I paused as I tried to control my emotions, but my shock made it impossible. “This was my mom’s favorite perfume. Did Dylan tell you to get this?”

Rory’s mouth dropped open. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

She still hadn’t answered my question, but I didn’t want to press her for details. I was fairly certain Dylan had seen the perfume while living here. He probably thought it was mine, and noticed the bottle was almost empty, so he assumed he was being thoughtful. And he was. Maybe a little too thoughtful.

“Thank you. This is a very beautiful, thoughtful gift,” I said as I put the perfume back inside the bag and wiped tears from my cheeks. “Now I feel like my crying has made this very awkward. I’ve just been a bit overly emotional since Jack and I separated.”

She smiled as she took the bag from my hand and placed it on the coffee table. “Hey, remember when you and I were broken up a couple of years ago?” she asked Houston.

He shook his head. “Don’t remind me.”

Rory rolled her eyes. “He made me jump through hoops when we got back together.”

“What? That’s not true,” he contradicted her.

She gasped. “You don’t recall telling me we should just be friends, then sending me on a wild goose chase all the way to Eugene?”

A sheepish grin spread across his face as he ran his hand through his light-brown hair, which was slightly damp with rain. “That was not a wild goose chase. It was a treasure hunt. And I got a lot of help from your friends. It wasn’t all me. Anyway, we should get going. I’m sure Laurel has better things to do than stand here listening to us bicker.”

“Oh, no. This is fine. It’s nice to have company,” I insisted. “I just put on some coffee if you’d like to stay and chat.”

Rory smiled. “We have a flight to New York in a couple of hours. But thanks for the offer.” She glanced at the silver bag on the coffee table. “Happy early birthday. We hope you get everything you want.”

“Thank you.”

When Rory and Houston were gone, I carried the box of Barley Legal merchandise to the office and set it down on the desk. The box exhaled a puff of sweetly scented air as I pulled open the flaps. The first item I pulled out was a white Barley Legal T-shirt. The next item I extracted was a six-pack of beer.

The label on the side of the cardboard beer carrier read “Summer Sampler.” The logo for their Barley Legal Summer Shandy was a lemon slice superimposed over a bright-yellow sun as it rose over a field of hops. Tears slid down my cheeks as I remembered the last time I saw that logo.

As Jack spoke to the officer who drove us to the Columbia Gorge Hotel and Spa, he held me tightly in his arms, allowing me to hide my swollen, red eyes in the collar of his blazer. Jack thanked the officer for doing his best to process us quickly. The officer once again offered his condolences and assured Jack that our vehicles would be returned to us as quickly as possible, once they’d been processed by their forensics team.

“We should get inside,” Jack said, his voice hoarse from all the yelling and crying he’d done in the last eight hours.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll be in touch,” the officer replied.

Jack kissed the top of my head and whispered. “Let’s go lie down, baby.”

He didn’t say, “Let’s go to sleep,” or even, “Let’s get some rest.” He knew as well as I did that sleep and rest would not come easy today, even though it was now almost 7:30 a.m. and we’d been up all night. How could I sleep after what I just saw?

Jack never let me go. He kept one arm wrapped around me as we entered the lobby of the hotel, both arms as we checked in at the front desk and took the elevator up to our floor. I knew he wanted to comfort me, but I also knew he was holding on so tightly because I was the only thing keeping him from going under.

Jack’s parents tried to insist that we should stay with them instead of a hotel, but I was glad that Jack made it clear we needed to be alone right now. We needed to process what we’d seen in private. The crisis counselor at the police station assured us it was perfectly normal to feel the need to be alone at a time like this. But she also insisted that we couldn’t isolate ourselves forever, or we might never heal.

Her statement assumed there was a chance we would someday heal.

As we entered the hotel room, I set my purse down on the desk and noticed a cardboard coaster with the Barley Legal logo beneath a bright-yellow lemon sun. It was a promotional coaster for their Summer Shandy. But all I saw was the hundreds of Barley Legal bottles on the tables at our wedding reception exactly three years and one day ago. How the summer sun made the white silk tents glow. The laughter and music and joyful chatter that echoed in my memory.

As I sat on the edge of the hotel bed, Jack knelt before me and gently slid the straps of my heels off and set them aside. He stared at my shoes for a long moment, and I was grateful I couldn’t see what he was thinking. The muscle in his jaw twitched and it killed me to see him like this.

I reached forward, my fingertips grazing the scruff of his jaw to snap him out of his trance. He turned toward me and wrapped his arms around my waist. Pulling me toward him, he buried his face in my belly. I stroked his hair as his tears soaked through the silky fabric of my blouse.

Finally, he pulled away and drew in a deep breath as he laid his large hand over my abdomen. “This isn’t right,” he said, his fist curling around the damp fabric.

I took his face in my hands, and his scruff felt comforting as my gaze wandered over his face. The bloodshot eyes, the shimmering moisture on his skin, the anguished crease in his brow. Jack was hurting. Possibly even more than I was, considering he was the one who had to push me out of the bathroom so he could check their bodies for signs of life.

He tightened his grip on my shirt and pulled me forward until I was also on my knees. As I wrapped my arms around his waist, his arms swallowed me, squeezed my shoulders so tightly I could almost imagine I wasn’t falling apart. I pressed my face into his collar as I wept, inhaling the crisp scent of his skin. My shoulders jumped with each gasping sob, and each time he tightened his hold on me.

After a long while, my cries dissipated as my energy waned. Our breathing synced and my muscles finally began to slacken as the warmth of Jack’s body enveloped me. Maybe if we stayed in this position for eternity, maybe if we never let go, maybe it would be possible to heal.