At every wedding someone stays home.

I would miss Colby, but it wasn't going anywhere. All the more reason why I should.

That was the hard thing about grief, and the grieving. They spoke another language, and the words we knew always fell short of what we wanted them to say.

There's a kind of radar that you get, after years of being talked about and made fun of by other people. You can almost smell it when it's about to happen, can recognize instantly the sound of a hushed voice, lowered just enough to make whatever is said okay. I had only been in Colby for a few weeks. But I had not forgotten.

I wondered if emotions were like menstrual cycles, if you get enough women together. Give it time, and everyone was crying.

It wasn't like I was some expert on the meaning of being supportive. Was it being loyal even against your better judgement? Or, like Olivia, was it making your displeasure known from the start, even when someone didn't want to hear it?

With love like that, you can't get pick about how it finds you or the details. All that matters is that it's there. Better late than never.