Best, First, and Last

by Amy T. Matthews

Genres: Women's Fiction; Family Life

Synopsis

In this stirring, spirited, and ultimately joyful new novel from the author of Someone Else’s Bucket List, three generations of women in the same family, whose hearts have been broken in different ways, set out on a challenging journey to see one of the wonders of the world—and find themselves to be just as awe-inspiring. Perfect for fans of Josie Silver and Rebecca Serle.

When twenty-five-year-old Heather Russo breaks up with her boyfriend—again—she can’t figure out if she’s to blame or he is. Either way, she’s miserable, and working at home via Zoom meetings is only making it worse. What’s more, all the women in her family are struggling. Mom Sandy is convinced she’s wasted her life and is nursing a giant grudge against Heather’s father, whom she’s now divorcing. Grandmother Bonnie is reeling with the grief of losing her third husband, and is carrying his urn everywhere she goes, even the supermarket. The bottom has fallen out of their lives so abruptly, the trio is clinging to any handhold they can—and slowly but surely losing their grip . . .
 
Inspired by a friend’s adventurous grandson, and determined not to spend her 70th birthday wallowing, Bonnie is ready to take extreme measures. Even if it means dragging her beloved girls along by the hair, they’re going to hike the Incan Trail to Machu Picchu! Of course, their emotional baggage gets packed with their lightweight jackets, but as they make the trek, the women also talk, sharing stories and secrets that have been festering for far too long. With every arduous step toward the famed summit, each woman sheds some of the past and its pain, and opens up to the extraordinary possibilities of the present—and a future that just might include a new happily ever after.
 
Praise for Someone’s Else’s Bucket List

“A poignant look at how the bonds of sisterhood can shape our lives.” —Namrata Patel, author of The Candid Life of Meena Dave

“Someone Else's Bucket List begins by breaking your heart then takes you by surprise by becoming uplifting and utterly galvanizing. Best of all, it's a stirring celebration of the power of sisterhood!” —Matt Cain, author of The Secret Life of Albert Entwistle

“This life-affirming tale reminds us that happiness is possible if we find the courage to reach for it.” —Jamie Beck, Wall Street Journal bestselling author
 

Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Tucson, Arizona

After the funeral, everyone went home. And Bonnie Jenkins was left alone in the big house on East Goldsmith Place, swimming about under the ten-foot ceilings like a minnow in an empty SeaWorld aquarium.

“I blame you for this,” she told her late husband, who was sitting opposite her in the breakfast nook on this very early morning in March. Bonnie had given up pretending to sleep and had headed downstairs for coffee and toast in the watery predawn light. “If I’d still been in the old house in Phoenix, I wouldn’t be lonely like this. I’d have my girls right there on my doorstep.”

He didn’t answer her. The cherry wood box just sat there. She’d chosen the cherry wood for his ashes because she’d been worried about breaking an urn. She’d promised Junior that if he upped and died on her, then she was going to carry him with her everywhere she went and talk his ear off. Even if his ear was no longer there. “If you die, you’ll be coming to every choir practice, every lady’s lunch, every shoe-shopping expedition,” she’d threatened.

“You’re not in a choir.” He’d been unfazed.

“I’ll join one.” She’d been deadly serious. “I’ll make sure your afterlife is anything but restful.”

And she was keeping that promise, which is why he was in a box on the kitchen table, and not scattered to the four winds, like he wanted.

It had been a revelation to discover how many kinds of urns there were to choose from, she thought as she stared at the cherry wood box. Times had changed since she’d last lost a husband. The funeral home had sent her a link and when she’d clicked it open, she’d found a catalog of final resting containers: marble and brass, stone and steel, even crystal. Junior’s daughter, Holly, had favored skipping the urn since they were going to be scattering him, but Bonnie wasn’t giving into the scattering so easily. Holly was back in Vancouver with her polite Canadian husband and children, and Bonnie was the one here in the empty house with what was left of Junior, so she figured she had the final say. Bonnie had settled on the polished cherry wood box for him, which she’d had screwed shut, to make sure she didn’t go spilling him everywhere. Particularly on nights when she’d had a couple of drinks at the golf club bar.

Ugh, the golf club.

She was only living out here in the deserty foothills of the Santa Catalina Mountains because of that stupid golf club. Junior had already bought the house (or at least the idea of the house, off a plan) when she’d met him, and he’d spent their courtship driving her out to the site to watch it go up, promising her a perfect sun-splashed life, with a pool sparkling in the courtyard and views of the mountains from every window. And a golf club just over the back fence.

“You can amble on over to the club and meet me for lunch after I finish my round of golf,” he’d said gruffly, pulling her closer, in that beary way he had. He was a man of immense affection. It had its charm. Golf, less so.

He was the second husband who’d wooed her with a house. Funny how life had its echoes.

She missed a lot about Junior. His calmness. His twinkli-ness. The way he asked her opinion on things and then actually listened when she spoke. Even now, when he was reduced to a cherry wood box, he listened.

“Three dead husbands is beyond the pale,” she complained around her mouthful of buttery sweet toast. What did it matter if she ate nothing but carbs, fat and sugar, and with her mouth open to boot. There was no one to see her. And nothing to stay healthy for. “One dead husband is a pity, two is a tragedy, but three? Three is a joke.” She cast her eyes heavenward. “You tell Him while you’re up there, Junior. A joke.”

She’d made Junior put it in their wedding vows—the promise about not dying on her. But he’d up and done it anyway.

“And now I’m stuck out here next to a golf course, in a house that’s too big, with my girls four hours away. I can’t even pop by.”

Bonnie missed her kids. She’d had Sandra when she was still just a kid herself, and it felt strange living so far from her. Like she was missing a limb. They’d basically grown up together, and when things were uncertain, there was always Sandra, giving her a reason to get out of bed in the morning. Jacqui had come later, when Bonnie was more sure of herself, and less bruised by . . . well, life. But now, here she was, bruised again, but this time with no daughters to drag herself out of bed for.

There was a splash outside. Bonnie perked up. It had come from the direction of the Ortegas’ house next door.

“Bit early for a swim, isn’t it?” Bonnie shot Junior’s cherry wood box a look.

She’d always told him the neighbors were too close. These houses were so big they ate up the whole block. You could see into each other’s windows, for Pete’s sake. And who swam this early? And in March? Dawn was only just flushing the spring sky apricot. Bonnie stood and craned her neck. If she really stretched, she could just see over the fence, particularly now that Paula had trimmed the palms back. It was like the tropics over there. Bonnie would hate to see their water bill. And yet . . .

“I wouldn’t mind some palms myself,” she told Junior absently. “Instead of all that agave you put everywhere.”

She rose on tiptoe and managed to catch sight of a well-muscled back and a pair of strong arms cutting through the water of the Ortegas’ pool. Which was the exact same size and shape as her own pool.

“Who do you think that is, Junior?” It certainly wasn’t her neighbor Steve, who was about twice as thick and half as toned.

She didn’t wait for Junior to respond, but headed for the dining room, pulling her phone off the charger on the way. From the dining room window, she had a clear view into Paula and Steve’s kitchen, and she was glad to see the lights were on and Paula was filling the coffee machine with water.

Bonnie turned on her own lights and pressed Paula’s number on her phone. She watched as Paula reached for her cell, glancing over at Bonnie’s place. Bonnie didn’t miss the wry resignation as Paula gave her a wave.

“Can’t sleep again?” Paula was sympathetic, or at least trying to be. She leaned against her counter and gave Bonnie her full attention through the window.

“There’s a man in your pool.” Bonnie didn’t care about sleep. This wasn’t her first rodeo. She knew how grief went. She’d sleep eventually, probably too much once the serious depression hit, so, until then, she’d just be glad she was awake and sad, but not in the black hole of despair. And unlike the last couple of black holes, which she’d suffered through alone, this time she’d had the good sense to keep Junior with her, for company.

“There is indeed a man in my pool,” Paula agreed shortly as she went back to her coffee machine.

Bonnie didn’t take pity on her. “It’s not Steve.”

“No.” Paula was equally pitiless. It was why Bonnie liked her.

“Is this some kind of ménage à trois situation?”

“Yes, we’re engaging in threesomes with young men on every second Wednesday of the month.”

Bonnie managed not to laugh. “Well, good for you.”

“It’s only Owen.”

“Your grandson?” Bonnie headed back to her kitchen. She slid open the courtyard door and stood on the step. She had a better view from here. There was the steady slapping of water as Paula’s grandson did his laps. “I’ve not met him yet. Or seen any pictures of him on Facebook.”

Silence.

“He’s the journalist?”

“Photojournalist.”

Bonnie could do silence too. Eventually there was a gusty sigh. “Would you like to come for breakfast?” Paula offered.

Bonnie tossed her toast in the trash. “Depends. What are you cooking?”

“Rice Krispies.”

“Sounds divine. Give me a moment to freshen up and I’ll pop over. I might have an avocado or two I can bring.”

“For Rice Krispies?”

“And maybe some feta. You could throw a couple of poached eggs on top.”

“Could I?”

“Don’t go to any trouble for me, though.” Bonnie heard a laugh as she hung up. “This is more interesting than toast,” she told Junior, as she dragged him back upstairs so they could get ready.

Paula pursed her lips when she opened the door. She looked Bonnie up and down. “Well,” she said, “you certainly did get fresher.”

“What? Too much?” Bonnie looked down at her patterned skirt and pale-pink T-shirt. “I was aiming for breezy casual. With the urn providing a dash of grieving widow chic. You don’t think I can pull it off?”

Paula rolled her eyes. She was still in her pajamas, which had sleepy iguanas all over them, and her steely gray hair was sticking up like a cock’s comb.

“I can wipe the lipstick off, if you think it’s too much?” Bonnie handed over the avocados and the tub of crumbled feta. “There’s a lemon in there with the avocados too.”

“Would you actually wipe the lipstick off if I said you should?” Paula asked curiously as she closed the door.

“Doubtful, but we’ll never know unless you ask.”

“Not my style.” Paula padded back to the kitchen, Bonnie in her wake.

“Where’s Steve?” Bonnie asked, continuing past the open kitchen and into the back room, where the sliding doors stood wide. From here she had a very clear view of the photojournalist grandson as he did a tumble turn and kept swimming.

“Asleep,” Paula said.

“This is the grandson who has commitment issues?” Bonnie asked.

Paula grunted an irritable assent, clearly annoyed about it.

“The one who runs off every time he gets feelings for someone?”

“That’s him.” There was the sound of Paula yanking the refrigerator door open with some violence. “Although to be fair, he runs off even when he doesn’t have feelings. He just runs. Like a dog at the damn track.”

Bonnie glanced away from the grandson long enough to see Paula putting the avocados and feta in the fridge. The stubborn woman pulled out two bowls and a box of Rice Krispies.

“You don’t have almond milk, do you?” Bonnie couldn’t resist asking. What would she do without Paula to play with?

“I have half and half, or Steve’s milk, which will lower your cholesterol.”

“God forbid. I don’t want to live any longer than I have to.”

“Hence the almond milk?”

“How old is the commitment-phobic grandson?” Bonnie kept an eye on him as she joined Paula at the breakfast bar. She hadn’t had Rice Krispies in years. She popped Junior down and accepted coffee and a bowl of cereal.

“Too young for you.”

“Paula! As if I’m the kind of woman who’d hit on a young thing. And don’t upset Junior. You know how he gets.”

“Sorry, Junior.” Paula blew on her black coffee. “But you know what she’s like.”

Bonnie was enjoying this much better than her lonely kitchen. She didn’t feel like a minnow when she was with other people. “What am I like?”

“You’re a flirt. Hell, you even flirt with Steve.”

“Of course I flirt with Steve. The man needs it. It’s good for his heart.”

“Well, Owen’s heart is just fine, so your services aren’t necessary.” Then Paula pulled a worried face.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That.” Bonnie mimicked the face.

“Nothing.” But Paula shot a look at the swimming pool.

“Something is wrong with his heart,” Bonnie deduced.

Something serious, by the looks of it, Junior agreed. She waved a hand at the urn. Now he talked? After torturing her with silence all night long?

“He’s going through a breakup,” Paula confided. “Again. Such a shame, we all thought she was The One.”

No such thing.

Bonnie glared at the cherry wood box. Honestly.

I only mean there’s more than one One, Junior amended hastily.

Well, there was that. After all, Junior wasn’t her first love. Or even her second. She placed her free hand on the cherry wood box. Paula noticed, because she noticed everything.

“He’s taking the breakup hard,” Paula told Bonnie, turning back to her bowl.

“She left him, then?” Bonnie knew more than a thing about being left.

Paula shrugged. “I can’t say I blame her. He’s never home. Always off traveling.”

“Well, he is a photojournalist.”

“I doubt he was home one week of every month last year.” Paula was disapproving.

“Why didn’t she go with him?”

Paula shrugged again.

“I would.”

“I’m sure you would. Just like you learned to play golf for Junior.”

“That’s different.” Bonnie finished her Rice Krispies. She poured another bowl. “No one is worth golf.”

Is that so?

“Besides, Junior didn’t need me to play golf. He just needed me to rub the knots out of his lower back afterward.” And more.

God, I miss that.

Yes. Bonnie sighed. She did too.

“He says staying in one place makes him feel like one of those mammoths.” Paula leaned her elbows on the counter and gave the grandson in the pool a dirty look.

“What mammoths?”

“The ones that fell in the tar pits in California. At La Brea.”

“That’s a very specific image.” Bonnie appreciated that in a man; it was the sign of a good communicator. Which was a rare trait.

“He photographed them once. Says he’s got no desire to be uncovered after the next ice age, preserved in his eternal misery.”

“Maybe he should pick a tar pit that doesn’t make him so miserable, then.”

“He says he’s not interested in tar pits anymore. Not after the last one.”

“Are we still talking about women here? I’ve lost track.”

Paula shrugged. “You’ve got granddaughters, don’t you?” she said speculatively.

“None around here. They’re all off being career women of the world. The closest is Heather and she’s in Chicago. She’s also got a guy. I’ve not met him yet, but Sandra tells me he’s perfect.” Not that her daughter Sandra had great taste in men. “I don’t believe in perfect, myself.”

“Shame.”

“Not really. Imperfect is much more fun.”

“I meant shame she’s taken. I imagine any granddaughter of yours would make a tar pit interesting enough to get through an ice age or two.”

“Does he like older women?”

“You’re too old.”

“Not me. I’m done with men—I told you. I’m just waiting to die now Junior is gone.”

Paula snorted.

“I was thinking about my daughter Sandra.”

Paula rolled her eyes. “Sandy’s old enough to be his mother.”

“So? It happens the other way around all the time. Look at Craig and Leanne from the golf club—she’s young enough to be his granddaughter.”

“Ew. But thanks for reminding me.” Paula slid off her stool and pulled a calico bag off the door handle to the laundry. She fished around in the bag. “Here.” Paula handed Bonnie a book. “Leanne picked the next book for the golf widows book club.”

Bonnie looked down. Eat Pray Love.

“I told her it was a dumb pick because everyone read it years ago, but then I remembered that Leanne was probably in kindergarten when it came out.”

“I haven’t read it, but I might have seen the movie.” Bonnie turned the book over to read the blurb. Book club was the bane of her existence.

“Maybe it’ll inspire you to run off to Bali or to join an ashram.” Paula topped up their coffee. “And you’re down for bringing wine this time.”

“What are you bringing?”

“She wanted me to make a green papaya salad. But I’m bringing wine.”

“Drink Pray Love.”

“Something like that.”

There was a sloshing sound as the photojournalist climbed out of the pool. Bonnie pivoted in time to see glistening lengths of young musculature.

“You sure he wouldn’t be interested in a fling with a cougar?”

“You’re too old.” Paula was firm.

“Sandra,” Bonnie reminded her. “God knows, she needs it.” Sandra was stuck in her own personal tar pit, living through an ice age that seemed to never end.

“Owen,” Paula called. “Would you be interested in a fling with a cougar?”

The photojournalist turned their way, the towel frozen halfway to his face. It was a very nice face, Bonnie noted approvingly. Strong, a bit broody, but not in the least self-indulgent looking.

“What?” Ohhh, more than broody. There was definitely an edge. Bonnie liked an edge.

You do?

Bonnie patted the box reassuringly. She’d once liked an edge, she amended. When she was young, before she knew better.

“A cougar?” Paula repeated to her grandson. “Would you be interested in a fling with a cougar?”

The grandson resumed toweling off. “Sure. I run a side hustle as a gigolo.”

Bonnie laughed. She liked this one. He took after Paula.

“Owen, this is our neighbor Bonnie. Bonnie here has a daughter who needs cheering up.” Paula poured her grandson a coffee.

“She’s going through a divorce,” Bonnie chipped in. “It’s nasty.” Although in Bonnie’s opinion the marriage had been nastier than the divorce could ever be.

“How do you know that I’d cheer her up? I might make her more miserable.” The grandson wrapped the towel around his hips and shrugged on an old blue T-shirt. His dark hair was damp and shaggy. He took the coffee mug Paula offered him.

“You’d make a poor gigolo if you were going around making women miserable,” Paula said dryly.

“I didn’t say I was any good at it.” He leaned against the counter and cupped his hands around the mug. Lord, he was a looker. Cheekbones for miles. Big dark eyes. Sulky mouth but with a twitch at the corners, like you could easily coax a smile out of him. If you wanted to. This one didn’t look like a helpless mammoth. The running made a lot more sense now that she was looking at him front on. This wouldn’t be an easy man to hold down—this would be a man to run off with.

“Miserable would be a step up from where Sandra is,” Bonnie observed. She was out of sorts now that she was thinking about Sandra. She pushed the mostly empty bowl of Rice Krispies away. Sandra had stopped answering her calls, which was never a good sign.

“Breakups suck,” Paula’s grandson said. He had the same frank dark stare as Paula. Only he was sultrier than she was. But who knows, maybe Paula had been sultry once. Before she lived next to a golf course with Steve.

“You should tell her to go traveling,” Owen the photojournalist suggested. “It’s the best way to get out of a slump.”

“Isn’t that what got you into your slump in the first place? Traveling?” Paula said, a touch sharply.

“Where should she travel?” Bonnie jumped in before Paula could ruin things. She was enjoying this and didn’t want it to end. When it ended, she’d have to swim back to her empty aquarium and try and find ways to pass the day. Like watching the movie of Eat Pray Love so she could fake her way through book club again.

“Somewhere she’s never been before in her life,” Owen the Sultry said with conviction. “Somewhere totally new.”

Bonnie liked the sound of that.

“Sometimes you don’t need new,” Paula interrupted, still being sharp. “Sometimes you can get out of a slump without running away.”

“It’s not running away,” Owen told his grandmother calmly. “It’s running to.”

Running to. Bonnie felt the splash of the words like cool water on a hot day. Running to. Something you did when you were young, and the world was spread out at your feet like a summer beach. But what the hell could you run to when you were seventy? Golf?

Screw that.

“Is that what you’re doing with this Machu Picchu nonsense?” Paula was genuinely irked with him. “Running to? And what are you running to, exactly? A life spent alone? Homeless and childless and destined for a lonely old age?”

“What Machu Picchu nonsense?” Bonnie butted in. She liked the sound of this running to business.

“He’s off to Peru.” Paula crossed her arms. “Climbing some hill to see ruins.”

“It’s one of the new Seven Wonders of the World.” Owen the Sultry’s lips were twitching up. He might actually smile, Bonnie thought, curious to see what that would do to his face.

“What’s so wonderful about it?” Paula was really settling into a grump now.

“Why don’t you come with me and find out?” Now Owen did grin and boy, oh boy. Bonnie liked the look of him even more. He had the kind of smile that had just enough wickedness to be interesting. Shame she was too old for him. He was just the sort of man she’d enjoyed when she was a kittenish young thing. Like her first love Jimmy . . . Ah, Jimmy. The best worst thing to ever happen to her.

Paula made a scoffing noise. “If I’m going anywhere, it’s to Mexico to eat fish tacos and laze on the beach. There may or may not be margaritas.”

“Send me a postcard.” Owen winked at his grandmother, who was pretending not to be charmed. But how could she not be? “Are you coming on the hike with us this morning, Bonnie?” Owen asked her. He’d put his coffee down and was rummaging in the fridge.

“Hike?” Bonnie cocked her head.

“Does she look like she’s dressed for a hike?” Paula rolled her eyes.

A hike. Not something she’d do on her own but . . . Bonnie and Junior had done some of the Santa Catalina trails before his heart attacks. She used to be a good hiker. So long as she had people to talk to while she schlepped.

Go on. You promised you wouldn’t sit around moping after I went.

She hadn’t promised any such thing. He’d demanded it of her, and she’d ignored him.

But of course she was going. It beat watching old movies and not reading old books. “I can get changed,” Bonnie assured Paula’s broody-charming grandson.

“You have hiking shoes?” Paula asked dubiously.

“Of course.” Somewhere.

“You’d best get ready, then. We’re leaving soon.”

“There’s time. The boy’s still making breakfast,” Bonnie said placidly.

“The man eats quick,” Owen told her, spreading her avocado on his toast.

Bonnie didn’t begrudge him the avocado. The Rice Krispies had been a treat.

“We’d best change plans about the route,” Bonnie heard Paula sigh as she gathered up Junior. “We can do one of the longer easy ones, instead of doing Blackett’s Ridge.”

“Blackett’s Ridge isn’t hard.” Owen gave Bonnie a speculative look.

“Hard enough for a grieving granny who hasn’t hiked in forever,” Paula told him firmly.

“Don’t go easy on my account,” Bonnie sang as she slid off the stool and headed home to change. “I’m tougher than I look. And I might be grieving, but I’m still hotter than any granny you’ve ever known.”

“Don’t forget your sunscreen! And water.” Paula followed Bonnie to the door. “And here.” She gave Bonnie the book club book, which she’d tried to leave behind.

Bonnie took it. “Maybe I’ll read it aloud to you,” she told Junior’s cherry wood box as she took him home to get ready for their hike. “Serves you right for introducing me to the golf widows book club from hell. If I have to read it, so do you.” She felt better than she had in weeks. “I’ll do all the voices and everything.”

But now that they were home, Junior had gone silent again. He had a nasty habit of doing that.

Chicago, Illinois

“Your mother isn’t answering her phone.”

Heather wished she hadn’t answered the FaceTime call. Her grandmother loomed at her, holding the phone too close as usual, so the screen was all big pink-lipsticked fish lips.

“Isn’t she?” Heather strove for mildness, even though she felt the usual wave of stress at the mention of her mother. She stole a glance at the Post-it note stuck to the windowsill behind her computer. All my emotions have a place at the table, was scrawled in Sharpie on the lime-green square, even the uncomfortable ones. Heather took a deep breath and rose from her desk—calls with Bon-Bon were never quick. She felt her back crick as she stood; she’d been working, hunched over, for hours.

Heather kept her gaze fixed on the patchwork of Post-its that had built up on the windowsill and the wall since she’d downloaded her e-therapy app. Don’t look back, you’re not going that way, on brooding purple; I am allowed to take a break, on blue; Good things are coming, on Sunkist soda–colored orange.

Working at home hadn’t been good for Heather. She spent all day on her ass, in sweatpants and a nice sweater (relaxed on the bottom, ready for Zooming on top), eating junk and sweating deadlines that only seemed to hide more deadlines. This wasn’t how she’d imagined her life. She’d imagined herself in shafts of sunlight, the apartment clean and zen-like, an idyll out of Architectural Digest. But actually, working from home meant that she was stuck in her sloppy, ordinary life all the time. The hour when she used to commute just filled up with work. There was no more walking through the seasons—there was only watching clouds and rain and snow through her window. When she remembered to look up. She missed Chicago. Sitting here, staring at a screen, she could be anywhere at all. Or nowhere at all.

Be where you are, a yellow Post-it chided her.

“Are you listening to me?”

Heather tried to smile at Bon-Bon on FaceTime. “Yes, Bon.”

“When was the last time you spoke to her?” Bon-Bon demanded.

“Who? Mom?” Heather carried her phone in front of her as she did a lap of her one-bedroom apartment, massaging her tight lower back with her knuckles. By the time she reached the bed she was walking a little easier.

“You have spoken to her?” Bon was getting sharp. Sharper. Because when was Bon ever not sharp?

“Yeah, of course,” Heather lied. She’d been dodging Mom’s calls for a while. She didn’t want to hear about Dad’s affairs, or about the latest round of the divorce, which was a blood sport. He was her father. Sure, he was a lying, cheating, self-focused, immature dick, but he was still her dad.

It’s okay to set boundaries. Many hours of late-night therapy with a series of calm online therapists had led to that pink Post-it. Boundaries certainly weren’t a problem anymore with Dad, though, as he’d barely spoken to her since he and Mom broke up. It was as though when his marriage dissolved, Heather’s relationship with him had dissolved too.

“When did you speak to your mother?” Bon-Bon demanded. Heather could see a flash of sky on the phone as Bon-Bon moved outside. God, look at that. It was clear blue skies in Tucson, with bright sunshine. So bright Bon-Bon slid sunglasses on.

Maybe all Heather needed was some blue skies and sunshine. She looked out her window at the gray day. As much as she loved Chicago, sometimes she missed Arizona, mostly during the slush end of winter, which dragged into spring.

“When?” Bon was relentless.

“I spoke to her a couple of days ago,” Heather lied. She was lying a lot lately. Like when she’d told her now-ex-boyfriend Shawn there was someone else. It was the only way she could get him to accept the breakup. Although even now he insisted on calling it a “break” rather than a “breakup.” The breakup itself was another result of It’s okay to set boundaries.

“And how was she?” Bon-Bon asked. “Jacqui says she’s bad?”

Oh, thank God Aunt Jacqui was talking to Mom. That made Heather feel a little less guilty about dodging her calls. Aunt Jacqui was the brisk type, she could manage Heather’s mother, Sandy.

“She was the same the last time I spoke to her.” That wasn’t a lie.

“Bad,” Bon-Bon said grimly.

“Bad,” Heather agreed. Her palms were sweating. She hated the thought of Mom’s sadness.

Bon swore and pressed her bright pink lips together. The image on the screen jostled as she lowered herself to the edge of her pool and sat down.

“It’s warm enough there to get in the pool?” Heather focused on the sparkling blue water and unsuccessfully tried to stay in the moment. There was a terrace pool in Heather’s apartment building, but she’d moved in at the beginning of winter and so she hadn’t used it yet. She couldn’t wait until summer to dive in. Even though she worried about avoiding Shawn at the pool, as well as in the corridors....

Ugh, what had she been thinking, dating someone in her building?

And now here she was, falling into spirals of bad thoughts about Shawn again.

“I’m not getting in the pool, I’m just soaking my blisters. How I love you, Junior, for choosing a saltwater pool. So good for the blisters. Have you said hi to Heather yet, honey?” Bon-Bon turned the phone in the direction of a small wooden box. It contained her husband’s ashes, which was equal parts romantic and gross.

“. . .