Diane stood.
“I buried my husband, Ethan. I did not bury my ability to make decisions.”
She walked inside and closed the balcony door behind her.
Ethan stared at me.
“This is insane.”
“It’s fast.”
“Exactly.”
“But it’s her decision.”
“What if something happens?”
“Then she’ll deal with it.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m worried too.”
He looked at me sharply.
“Then why aren’t you stopping her?”
“Because worrying about someone doesn’t give you ownership of them.”
Ethan hated that answer.
The next morning, we flew home.
Diane stayed.
For the first three days, everything looked fine.
Too fine, according to Ethan.
Diane sent pictures constantly.
Malcolm grilling shrimp.
A table overlooking the ocean.
A farmers market.
Diane holding a giant frozen drink and looking twenty years younger.
She called Ethan every morning.
Then the calls became shorter.
