When I learn I’m still dating Sam Lewis, I’m at his funeral.

Mara and I drift into St. Ignatius Catholic Church twenty minutes early.

“You’re sloshing,” she tells me out of the side of her mouth.

“Puddle in the parking lot.” The wet squish of my foot into damp insole punctuates my words.

I grip her elbow when we reach the threshold, as if I’m guiding her toward the vaguely familiar faces of my ex-boyfriend’s friends and loved ones. Really, she’s the one who’s keeping me upright. Such is her duty as my best friend, though her striking, angular features and statuesque frame make her an only slightly more discreet companion than an emotional-support corgi.

Today, we’re a study in contrasts. Where Mara is tall and steady in her stacked heels, I’m short and unwieldy in my waterlogged, ­machine-washable flats. Her auburn hair is spun up neatly in a French twist while my long brown curls fall messily around my face, because I’m thirty years old and still can’t follow a YouTube hair tutorial.

She shakes herself from my death grip to unbutton her coat, revealing a pristinely black, ­Woolite-commercial-ready sweater topping a pair of effortlessly chic wide-leg trousers. ­I—as a chronically reckless washer of dark ­woolens—had nothing so perfectly Burial Black to don for the funeral of a man who’d gently dumped me in a rowboat. I settled for a faded charcoal dress and a cardigan that exists somewhere between pea green and the color of the dead­ late-autumn grass. I hope it snows soon. I’m already so sick of fall. I’m already so sick of today.

The wooden doors thud behind us, announcing our arrival. I suppose it’s not ordinary to bring a ­ plus-one to these sorts of things, but the funeral of my most recent ex is no ordinary occasion.