How to Talk to a Widower

years older than me, in good shape, and actually understood when I was being ironic. We got drunk at the open bar and then made fun of all the fat old men doing the Electric Slide. He was a lawyer, but he had a sloppy, irresponsible streak that made me feel at home, and because he was single he could ogle the younger women and flirt with the waitresses without seeming lecherous. Hanging out with him, I felt my own age, which it had never occurred to me could be an important factor in a friendship, but there it was. So while I still socialized with the husbands of Hailey’s many friends, somehow finding the fun between talk of the stock market and mind-numbing descriptions of the world’s best Scotches, golf courses, and tropical resorts, when it came to seeing all the sci-fi and action movies that Hailey didn’t want to see, or getting drunk and talking about all that existential shit that matters when you’re drunk, Mike was my guy. And when Hailey died, it was Mike who came right over to sit with me and Claire and help deal with the airline and the funeral arrangements, and to run interference for me with everyone else who showed up afterwards. He’d proven himself to be a good and loyal friend, and under normal circumstances I’d have been thrilled to welcome him to the family.
    But circumstances have not been normal for some time now. Circumstances have, in point of fact, been fucked-up beyond all recognition. Still, it occurs to me that there’s probably more to getting back out there than watching Claire hunt down random single women that I will never date, and this is one area where just saying yes won’t seem like a betrayal of Hailey. And maybe at some future point in time, I’ll feel like having a friend to go to the movies with again, instead of going alone, like I do now. Of course, by then Mike will be married and Debbie will have him instantly whipped and won’t let him go. But we could in theory.
    So we sit down and Mike drinks his coffee—skim milk, decaf, like that makes a bit of difference—and I sip at my two-and-a-half-dollar bottle of water. The reason men almost never hold long-term grudges against each other is that we’re so damn bad at making up. We don’t offer heartfelt apologies, and then hug each other tightly the way women do, laughing and crying into each other’s hair until the last remnants of hostility and resentment are gone. We just sit around, nodding inelegantly without making eye contact, shrugging and saying things like “Forget about it” or “Let’s just call it even” or other meaningless clichés that save us from actually having to speak directly to each other about hurt feelings and anger. In most cases, we’d just as soon find a new friend as submit to the awkward process of reclaiming an existing one. But in this case, Mike’s going to be family, and all the dinners and holidays headed our way leave us no choice. At least we’re united in wanting the conversation to be over before it begins, so while it never gets quite comfortable, it doesn’t take very long, and ten minutes later, I’ve agreed, against all my better instincts, to be one of his groomsmen. There will be a tuxedo fitting followed by a bachelor party in a few days. His younger brother Max will call me with all the details.
    Mike has to get back to the office, so he gives me a warm handshake, happily punching my shoulder, and I head across the shop to Claire, who is actually taking notes on a napkin as she interrogates Mandy. “How many kids?”
    “Two.”
    “What does she weigh?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Ballpark it.”
    Mandy closes her eyes for a moment. “One thirty-five, maybe? One forty?”
    “How tall?”
    “Five foot three or so.”
    “Who is she kidding? She doesn’t need a date, she needs Weight Watchers. Next.”
    “Are you done?” I say.
    “No. Go away.” She turns back to Mandy. “Tell me more about the dancer.”
    “You mean the aerobics instructor?”
    “Whatever.”
    Starbucks has filled up by now, and I can feel the dread growing inside me, being heated to a quick boil. I still can’t handle crowds, familiar faces nodding and smiling at me, aiming their good intentions and sympathy like darts at my head. I don’t want their pity; don’t want to once again put my sorrow on display for them. But I don’t want to seem too fine, either, because in my mind that would somehow be a slight to Hailey’s memory, belittling all that she was to me, and