Chapter 1.

1.

The next afternoon, I drove over to the Men’s Wearhouse in Stroudsburg to return my tuxedo. The kid with the pink hair and pierced eyebrows—the same kid who sold me the expensive accessory package—was standing behind the register. “Hey, welcome back! How did everything work out?”

I mumbled something polite and got the hell out of there. The answer to his question was: I still had no idea. I’d spent the previous evening driving back from New Hampshire with Tammy and Abigail. I dropped them off around midnight and I was back in my own bed by twelve-thirty, completely exhausted but too wired to sleep. I kept waiting for my phone to ping with new information from Maggie, something to explain what was happening next. Despite her assurances, I couldn’t stop worrying. At some point I must have drifted off, but I was up early the next morning and immediately reached for my phone: still no messages.

I tried to busy myself with chores. I went into Maggie’s childhood bedroom and stripped the sheets off her bed and put them into the washing machine. I know she said she was never coming home, but I wanted to be ready in case she changed her mind. After returning my tuxedo, I drove over to ShopRite and filled a grocery cart with her favorite foods. And all the while I kept checking my phone, making sure I hadn’t missed any calls. It was late in the afternoon before anyone reached out to me, and my stomach did a flip-flop when I checked the caller ID: it was Vicky, calling from Supercuts. I didn’t want to answer but I knew this conversation was inevitable.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Frank. I hope I’m not interrupting?”

She said she’d heard what happened and she was calling to express her condolences. Apparently the story was all over the news and she’d read about it on Facebook. I guess anytime the son of a wealthy tech tycoon dies in a firearms accident just minutes before his wedding, you can count on algorithms and influencers to spread the word.

“How’s Maggie coping?”

I didn’t know how to answer that question. I wouldn’t lie to Vicky, but I sure couldn’t tell her the truth.

“She’s very confused.”

“Of course she is. She’s probably in shock.”

“I wish I could help her. I don’t know what to do.”

Vicky asked when I was driving back to Pennsylvania and I explained that I was already home, that I’d been home all day.

“Oh, Frank, why didn’t you say so? Do you want to meet up tonight? Talk about this over dinner?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You’re welcome to come here. I’ve got food in my kitchen. I can put something together.”

God, I wanted that more than anything. I was so desperate to tell her what happened. But of course I could never tell anyone the truth. Especially her.

“I’m not good company right now.”

“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. I can respect that, Frank. You’ve been through a very traumatic experience. But I think, you know, psychologically? You could use a little emotional support.”

And I knew that if I didn’t get off the phone I would agree; I would race to her house and tell her everything. So I pointed out that she wasn’t a professional therapist.

“What’s that have to do with anything?”

“I don’t think you should be giving me advice. You don’t have any training in this stuff. You’re just the person who cuts my hair.”

And I knew this hurt her. I could tell from her reaction—or rather her lack of reaction—and the long dead silence that followed.

“I am not just the person who cuts your hair, Frank. I would have come to the wedding if you’d asked me sooner. If you hadn’t waited until the last possible minute. It’s not my fault I had to work.”

“I have to go, Vicky. I’m sorry.”

I ended the call and went over to the refrigerator where I kept all her business cards posted with magnets. I pulled them all down and put them in my trash so I wouldn’t be tempted to call her back. It would be at least another month before I needed to get my hair trimmed, and I knew I could just drive to the other Supercuts, the one that was two towns away in Mount Pocono.