Phil was seated on the bed, expression full of worry, and I just kind of slumped on top of him, pushing him to the bed beneath me. He hugged me tightly, stroking my hair, and I felt his kisses on my cheek, neck. I’d cried a lot, I guess, and now I just felt numb, tired. Rolling to my side, I tugged at his hair, kissing him softly. He had tears in his eyes now and I sighed, hating how the pain just seemed to keep bouncing from one person to the other—we just kept passing it on. I wondered if grief was contagious, like the flu but worse because there’s no real medicine for it and there’s no real immunity to be built against it. I kissed his eyes, tasting his tears, trying to wipe them away. “Don’t cry,” I whispered, hating to see him like this. Phil’s a crybaby, always has been, but
