I was there.

We lived together. We worked together. We drove to work together. We trained together. Worked out together. We were together pretty much twenty-four seven.

And it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough . . . not to keep him here, anchored to earth, to life.

He would have rather died than be with me.

A muffled boom comes from across the street.

The bomb squad has blown up the backpack. False alarm. There was nothing inside.

People around me cheer.

I’ve been told it’s wrong—selfish, narcissistic—to make Andrew’s death about me, but what else could I do? I was his partner, his lover, his best friend. I was going to be his wife and the mother of his children. If he was so unhappy, why couldn’t he tell me? Why wouldn’t he?

Why couldn’t he give me a chance to help him? I would have.

Now all I’m left with is that last day.

It had been a perfect day.

We’d just recently moved into our new house. We’d gone for a long run that morning, waking early to beat the desert heat. It was a good run, seven miles, which was a lot for me, but nothing for Andrew, since he was already running marathons. I’d agreed to run my first marathon after our honeymoon so we’d been training together, getting me used to the distance.

After running we worked on the house, and then walked to Fashion Square where we ate a late lunch—or early dinner, depending on how you’d call it—at the Yardhouse, our favorite place since we both loved the ahi dishes. Then we walked home, holding hands, talking about the wedding and the future and a couple hours later, I had a craving for ice cream, and I ran to the store.

So why did he do it?

Why, when it had been a good day? Why make me be the one to discover him in the entry, hanging from our new reproduction Spanish Colonial Revival chandelier, to match our authentic Spanish Colonial Revival dream home?

Why take one of the best days of my life and make it the worst day?

Love is supposed to be patient and kind.

It’s not.

TWO

The flight to Oakland ends up being delayed nearly three hours, but it looks like we’re still going to be able to get out tonight.

I’m sitting by the gate flipping through one of the professional journals I never have time to read when Dad calls. He’s heard about the bomb scare through CNN and he’s phoning me to see if I’ve been blown up. Those are, mind you, his exact words. As a little girl I was baffled by my dad’s dry humor. I’ve finally come to understand it.

“No, Dad, I’m fine. A lone backpack was blown to bits, but everything else is intact.”

“That’s it?” He sounds disappointed.

“That’s it. Well, and my flight’s delayed a couple hours, but all the excitement is over and I’ll still be there in the morning.”

“Maybe this is a sign that you’re not supposed to come.”

“Maybe you need to just embrace my visit.”

“I just think it’s a mistake for you to take time off work because I made a mistake and tripped over my own big feet.”

“Me not coming up would be the mistake. And humor me, Dad. This way I can pretend I’m a dutiful daughter.”

“So this is really about you.”

I answer as sweetly as I can. “Did you ever doubt it?”

He barks a laugh. “Now you sound like your mom.”

I smile, pleased. He doesn’t laugh often. “She was the one who taught me to kill ’em with kindness.”

“As long as you don’t kill them in your chair.”

“That would be bad,” I agree.

“So what time do you land in Oakland tonight?”

“Around eleven.”

“Need a ride from the airport?”

“You offering to get me?” I retort, knowing he’s given up driving.

“I could probably do all right.”

“And whose car would you steal?”

“Mom’s car is still at the house.