The Next Best Thing. Kristan Higgins

nods. “A widow, huh? Awesome.”

      I have to say, that’s not the usual response. “Excuse me?”

      Kyle leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly. “Well, you’re not some skank nobody wants, you know what I’m saying? Like, some guy already thought you were pretty hot, popped the question, then ran into some bad luck, am I right?” My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Kyle doesn’t seem to notice. “And you’re not some trashy ho who plows through the dudes, either, I’m guessing, since you look all nice and clean and stuff. So you know…cool. You being a widow and all. You must be pretty horny, too, you know what I’m saying?”

      Suddenly I feel the spirit of Attila the Hun, my ancestor, materialize at my shoulder. “You’re right. Being a widow is so cool. No one to mess up my stuff, you know what I’m saying? And you know what else, Kyle? Let me tell you a secret. One day, back when he was still alive, my husband took the last cup of coffee, okay? Didn’t even tell me. So I said to myself, ‘Lucy, do you really want to live like this?’ And I didn’t, so I killed him.” I flutter my eyelashes. “You want to grab dinner sometime?”

      Parker and I don’t talk much on the way home. My last Yes turned out to be a firefighter, and though he was attractive, charming and polite, there was no way in hell I was going to marry a man who rushed into burning buildings with a rinky—dink little air pack strapped to his back. Parker took his card, though, and they have a date next week.

      “You did good tonight, kid,” Parker says when we reach my place.

      “And you did amazingly,” I say. “How many dates do you have for next week?”

      “Just three,” she answers.

      “Are you really looking for someone, or are you just keeping me company?” I ask.

      “Oh, I guess I’d like to find someone. Theoretically. It’s different, though, having a kid. I already belong to someone, you know? It’s just that he’s four years old.”

      I smile. “You’re so lucky, Parker.”

      She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know. Now get out of my car, you.”

      “Thanks for driving,” I say. “And thanks for taking me. Sorry you wasted your money.”

      “It’s nothing,” she answers. “Talk to you tomorrow. And hey, Luce…” She turns to look at me, and as always, I’m struck by just how gorgeous she is.

      “Yes?”

      “Jimmy would be proud of you.”

      There’s a sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I say, my voice uneven. “Kiss Nicky for me.”

      “Will do.”

      In the elevator, rather than pressing 4, I hit 5. Ethan’s floor. Maybe he wants a little company. Maybe—I wince, feeling like a person on a diet standing in front of the freezer, knowing she’s about to eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s—maybe Ethan wouldn’t mind a friendly little tumble. One that means nothing…just a little nooky, a quick shag. Or a longer shag, maybe.

      I knock at his door. If he’s home, he’s awake…it’s only ten, and Ethan never goes to bed before 1:00 a.m. Or he didn’t use to, anyway. Whatever the case, there’s no answer. Feeling more deflated than I should, I go back down to my apartment, where Fat Mikey winds himself around my ankles in his traditional attempt to cause my death by tripping me. I pick him up, remind him that he loves me and I live to serve him, and kiss his large head.

      Though I know I shouldn’t, I find myself sitting in front of the TV, watching my wedding video once again, Fat Mikey’s comforting bulk at my side. After attempting to find a date tonight, I just need to see Jimmy’s face, see him in motion. Our time together was so brief—so many memories that might’ve been were taken from me the night he died. We have no first anniversary, no birth of our children.

      I hit Mute and watch the video in silence, undistracted by the sounds of the music, the laughter, other people talking. Instead I just drink in the sight of Jimmy, frozen in time at age twenty—seven, crazy in love with me.