by Emily Belden
I never feel like I have any time to prepare and head to safety when it does.”
Many women in the room nod their heads in agreement.
The car thing gets me, too. Most days, my grief is pretty mel-
low and it is what it is: just a trip to Trader Joe’s. But in the past especially, it would be a destinationless drive with a singular focus: making sure my legs were touching the same piece of
fabric that touched his so that I could still feel his presence, so we could still be connected. Because I wouldn’t know how
to function if that didn’t happen.
“Anyway, my therapist said the best thing to do is learn how
to treat each specific stage of grief so that whichever one your brain settles on in a given day, you’ll at least be equipped to function. Today, for me, it’s sadness. So I’m working through
that. Sadness. Thanks again for listening.”
“Thank you, Lucy,” the room says in concert.
About twenty minutes later, the session wraps. I didn’t say
anything during the group chat. That’s not unusual for me. I
come here less to talk and more to be reminded that I’m not
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 239
1/14/19 1:44 PM
240
Emily Belden
alone. That all of our stories are essentially the same. I come here for proof that life goes on, because sometimes, you just
need that.
The women in the group, including myself, get up to min-
gle. Lucy is behind me in line waiting to refill her white Sty-
rofoam cup with the cheap stuff supplied by the library.
“Thank you for sharing today,” I say as I turn around and
free up the coffee pot. “Your diagram was very helpful. I al-
ways like to learn new ways to process old feelings. I’m Char-
lotte, by the way.” I put out a hand for her to shake, and she
accepts. Her fingers are cold, her nails are painted red. I don’t see that very much anymore on anyone: bright red nails. She
reminds me of a receptionist at a dentist’s office.
“Oh, you’re most certainly welcome, Charlotte. Again,
I’m Lucy. When did you lose your spouse, hon?” she asks as I
pump a little expired pumpkin-spiced creamer into my barely
drinkable java.
“Um, almost five years ago actually. He died in an acci-
dent at a big race.”
I add that last detail because I’ve been to enough of these to
know that the question of “how” is always what comes next.
“Like a marathon?”
“Yeah, kind of like that.”
“Oh, god. That is so hard,” Lucy says, validating me.
You may not notice, but there’s a widow code of ethics
going on between us right now. I’ve ended my last sentence
in a way that Lucy could hear the period I put on it. I’m not
open to sharing more about how he died with her right now.
So she won’t ask for more details.
“Anything in particular you’re struggling with today, Char-
lotte?”
Where do I begin?
“I’m worried about my memory of him,” I say.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 240
1/14/19 1:44 PM
Husband Material
241
“Ahh. Well, Charlotte, as someone who’s been widowed
just a tad longer than you, I can assure you that the memories
never go away. Sure they fade a bit, but you’ll see something,
or you’ll smell something, or a friend will mention something,
and trust me, you’ll wind up right back on track.”
“Not like that,” I explain. “I’m worried that the perfect
way I remember him, that everyone remembers him, might
not be how he actually was. Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t a bad guy or anything. It’s just, he had a past that not many
people knew about, and ironically it’s coming into frame now
after he’s gone.”
Lucy smiles and nods. “I see. What happened to your hus-
band’s cell phone after he died?”
“It was in the zip pocket of his shorts when he ran the race.
It was smashed. I never got it.”
“Okay, I ask because my husband couldn’t have his phone
on the floor at the plant, so he kept in a storage locker. After he died, his company unlocked it for me and put all his belongings in a gallon-sized Ziplock baggie. His phone didn’t
have a lock on it or anything. And I admit, I went through his
phone. At first, just to look at old pictures. But then I listened to his voice mails and I read his texts. Gary never cheated on
me, thank god. But he, he had a horrible gambling problem
that I had no idea about. He texted his bookie more than me.
He withheld half his paycheck from me; I had no idea his sal-
ary was double what he was bringing home. It all went to
betting. As disappointing as that was, I had hoped it would
have led to a treasure trove of excess funds, but all it led to was a crippling bookie debt. I didn’t tell anyone about it. I’ve just been slowly inching toward squaring up with his bookie,
taking weekly withdrawals from his life insurance policy. See
any creamer around here?”
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 241
1/14/19 1:44 PM
242
Emily Belden
I gesture to the carafe hiding behind the decaf coffeepot
to the left.
“Thanks. So does that help you any?” Lucy asks.
“It does. But my husband’s secret,” I tell her, “can’t be ze-
roed out like a debt.”
She sets the creamer back down on the table and stirs the
contents of her Styrofoam cup.
“Gary was in his job for thirty years. He sliced every single
one of his weekly paychecks in half to gamble. I’ll be pay-
ing off Gary’s debt for the next twenty years, Charlotte,” she
says, topping off her coffee. “I turned sixty in April. Do the
math.” Lucy laughs at the absurdity.
“Look, I don’t know why he never told me about the gam-
bling. I guess it’s because he knew it would hurt me. But at
the end of the day, nothing about his problem changes the
experience I had with him. It was sunbeams and rainbows as far as I knew—respectful, reliable, always there for me. But I
get that’s hard to explain to other people—they’ll push me to
focus on the negative—so I just don’t bring it up at all. I take care of it privately myself. In fact, you’re the first person I’ve told this to, actually.”
“Really? Why me? I won’t tell anyone, I promise,” I quickly
reassure her.
“Charlotte, dear. I didn’t tell you because I thought you
were good at keeping secrets. I told you because sometimes
you just know who you can trust. Now if you’ll excuse me,
I need to make the rounds before the library kicks us out of
the meeting room. I hope to see you back here again, Char-
lotte. It was nice talking to ya.”
With my mom so far away, I can’t tell you how badly my
heart needed to hear a ya right now.
The thought of Decker choosing not to tell me something
feels like it goes against all that is holy in a marriage. But
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 242
1/14/19 1:44 PM
Husband Material
243
something in Lucy’s anecdote triggers a new thought. Would
Decker withhold something significant from me if it meant
not hurting me? What if he thought about this—really thought
about this—and came to the conclusion that it was better I
did not know he got a girl pregnant? If I did know, I’d worry
about it. I’d stew about it. I’d be confused about starting our own family and if our first child would really be ours or just
mine. I’d struggle if we never had a boy and the Austin name
never had a proper chance to live on. I know myself. And
Decker knew me. I trusted him a thousand percent. I trusted
him with our relationship—with our future. He wouldn’t do
something to hurt me. He would, however, choose to protect
me at all costs. Are those the same?
As I buckle my seat belt, I spill a little of my grief group
to-go coffee on my lap. So I pop open the glove box and reach
for a spare fast food napkin. That’s when I notice something
else in there: my engagement ring.
There comes a moment for every widow when they decide
to stop wearing their wedding ring. That moment happened
for me over the kitchen sink the first day I moved into the
apartment with Casey. I was always in the habit of removing
it and setting it on the counter when I washed my hands. The
soap made it extra slippery and susceptible to falling down the drain. As I was toweling off, Casey asked about the ring and
I told her it was an heirloom I’d been meaning to take to the
vault. After that, I never put it back on. Nor did I take it anywhere but to a box in my closet for safekeeping, which is where I thought it was—safe and out of sight—this whole time.
But then I remember. On one of my last trips to Goodwill
to drop off the remaining Decker stuff, I decided to bring the
ring along with me, stop by a secondhand store, and donate
whatever they’d give me for it to an inner-city youth lacrosse
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 243
1/14/19 1:44 PM
244
Emily Belden
team. But at the last minute, I got cold feet. I tried convinc-
ing myself it was a noble thing to do, but then I thought about the journey that ring took to be in my life and I couldn’t accept it culminating with some lowball offer from a skeezy
pawn shop in Sherman Oaks. So I separated it from the er-
rands pile, tossed it in the glove compartment, and figured it
was safe enough in there tucked between the owner’s manual
and paper napkins until I could actually find time to look up
renting vault space at the bank. I guess I never found the time.
I slip the ring on for the first time in years, but it gets stuck around my knuckle. I’m up about ten (okay, fifteen) pounds
since we were married. That’s what years of stress eating com-
bined with sitting in a chair for hours on end writing code
will do to a person’s body. But regardless of its placement on
my finger now, I twist my wrist to the left and right and let
the sun ricochet off the center stone. Little blips of reflections from the diamond dance on the car’s ceiling like a twinkling
constellation in the night sky.
I think back to the day Decker gave it to me. We had made
it to the top of Runyan Canyon, pausing to take in the scen-
ery and catch our breath. I redid my sweaty, Sunday morn-
ing ponytail as I spotted and pointed out the Hollywood sign.
“Look!” I said with excitement taking over every feature of
my face.
“Yes, babe. I know. The sign. Can we head back down?”
I knew—well, thought I knew—the heights were bother-
ing him. But maybe his rush to start our descent was actually
just the preproposal “let’s get this show on the road” nerves.
I breathed in from the top and reflected on the fact that Los
Angeles is such a smoggy, beautiful beast. It was hard to be-
lieve that in a city so big, the two of us from drastically different roots, coasts, and backgrounds somehow gravitated toward
each other, became boyfriend and girlfriend, and managed to
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 244
1/14/19 1:44 PM
Husband Material
245
have a loving, loyal, real relationship in city full of fake. Yes, Decker was attractive, but on the inside, he was a prize—a
total gem of a person. Soft-spoken, thoughtful, gentle, kind,
and with a quirky sense of humor I’m fairly certain was only
meant for a handful of people to understand. Myself included.
When I looked at Decker, I always came away with the
thought that he was my best friend. We had fallen for each
other like bags of bricks—quick and hard. In LA, settling
down with a girl who “works in entertainment” before the
age of thirty-five is a foreign concept. “There are just so many distractions, so many options.” That’s what everyone told me
about the dating scene here and I not only believed it, I had
accepted it like some tax you have to pay to live here. Yet
here we were: me, twenty-four years old, him, twenty-six;
fingers interlocked at the top of the mountain, and most cer-
tainly doing the damn the thing.
“Ready for brunch, babe?” Decker asked.
“Yup. Starving.”
He kissed my lips and down the hill we went.
Halfway back, a blonde lady with too much plastic surgery
(a dime a dozen) passed us walking the cutest dog I’d ever seen.
“Oh my god, Decker. Look at that pupppppyyyy!” I
squealed, giving his arm a squeeze and dragging him over for
a closer look at the insane cuteness.
“Excuse me, can we pet your dog?” I unapologetically asked
on behalf of both of us.
Before she even responded, I was bent down and giving
this little French bulldog all the attention in the world. Everything in me wanted to snatch the puppy, run, and deal with
the repercussions of doing so later.
“How old is he?” I asked, submitting to all the licks and
kisses.
“About six weeks,” his owner said.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 245
1/14/19 1:44 PM
246
Emily Belden
“Awww, you’re just a baby, aren’t youuuu?” I said in that
high-pitched, crazy-dog-lady voice people can’t help but use
when canoodling the cutest-ever six-week-old Frenchie.
“You can pick him up if you want to,” the lady said.
“Isn’t he adorable?” I said to Decker as I rocked the puppy
like a newborn baby in my arms.
“He’s very cute, yes. What’s his name?” Decker asked.
I grabbed hold of the little bone-shaped tag around his neck
and turned it toward me. It said LENO.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” Decker asked.
“This dog is named Leno. Stole your ‘first-born’s’ name!” I turned the tag toward him as proof and couldn’t resist smiling.
“Turn it over,” Decker said. “What does the other side say?”
I flipped the tag over, unsure of why it mattered what the other side said, the coincidence of the year had already taken place—a dog named Leno, just like Decker had always planned
for himself. But, as it had turned out, the romantic gesture of the year had not.
“MARRY ME, CHARLOTTE?-D” was engraved on the
other side of the
dog tag.
I looked up at Decker who was smiling ear to ear, then
back to the blonde dog owner. By now, she had removed her
giant sunglasses and was asking if it was “okay to leave now.”
Decker gave her a twenty-dollar bill before she scampered
away down the mountain. He then crouched down on one
knee. The whole thing was still a blur, but what I knew for
sure was that I was clutching a puppy and he was holding a
ring.
“What is going on here?” I said.
“Charlotte Eliza Rosen, will you make me the happiest
man on earth and please, please marry me?”
I shifted Leno into my right arm and gave Decker my left.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 246
1/14/19 1:44 PM
Husband Material
247
He placed the two-carat perfect emerald cut diamond on my
left finger, then stood up to kiss me on the lips. I nuzzled my face into the crook of his neck and started to stream tears of
joy.
Back in my car, as I twirl the ring on my finger, I put my
hands to my face and feel those same tears make an appear-
ance. They are tears of relief. Relief that the good memories
are not all gone.
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 247
1/14/19 1:44 PM
22
She’s clipping the stems of a dozen white roses over the farm-
house sink in her kitchen. And for the record, it looks like
Alexa let her down with changing the security code on her
front door because entering the Austin house in the middle
of Debbie’s Monday afternoon neighborhood pool party was
as easy as cutting through room-temperature butter.
“That’s him on the diving board, isn’t it? That’s Aiden?
Decker’s son?” My question is fired at point-blank range and
cancels out the sweetness in the summer aromatics that pre-
viously occupied Debbie’s kitchen: SPF 30, freshly squeezed
lemonade, and the beginnings of a robust floral arrangement.
I’ve never spoken to Debbie like this. My interactions with
her have only ever toggled between wanting to be in the
good graces with my husband’s mom, and wanting to be in
the good graces with my late husband’s mom. In either situation, there hasn’t been much wiggle room for me to suddenly
sport a confrontational personality. But by now, I’m ready to
9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 248
1/14/19 1:44 PM
Husband Material
249