I have a scotch in my hand. It’s my third. I should probably slow down. I don’t want to wake up with a hangover, but it’s hard not to drown my sorrow in alcohol when I feel like shit.

I’m sitting in the art room I had put in for Julia, looking at the paintings she did when she was here, looking at the stool we were sitting on when we made love in this room. She’s been gone less than twenty-four hours, and I already miss her like hell.

I look down at my phone. I sent her ...