“Oh, Jess,” she said, noting the look on my face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
“No, I mean, when I walked away, I was lost without you. I didn’t know what to do. I had no one to talk to. I hid in a hotel room, shaved my beard, bought some crappy clothes so I’d look like a student. Wandered Boston for a few days—”
Her words sparked something, deep in my memory. “Oh my God. That was you!”
“What are you talking about?”
“A few days after the attacks. They were interviewing people on one of the local news stations, and someone shoved a mike in this young guy’s face, and I thought, ‘He looks kinda like Brett.’ But you were dead, and I hadn’t seen you without a beard in years. I figured it was just hormones and the stress of losing you making me hallucinate. I never dreame
