Our best friend died. When I look back and try to solve the puzzle of how this all spiraled down and how we ended up here, the logical conclusion was that it began there. His fur was yellow and his muzzle was black. We adopted him from the shelter at the start of our relationship and named him Max. As a logical man, I suppose I should have known this day was always looming over me. My husband and I awoke on that first saddest day of our lives to find that Max was not sleeping peacefully at the foot of the bed. He was lying on the gray duvet where he belonged, but he was dead. Knowing this day would come eventually hadn’t made accepting it or coping with it any easier for Daniel or myself. Max was only 6 years old, that’s 42 in dog years.
“I wish I could bring you home with me,” Evan said. His husband’s mouth opened. Evan imagined they’d argue and held up his finger. “Shhh. It’s better this way, Jace. You’re banished…can’t go back.” Jace glared down the hill where they met now, overlooking dust as wind carried and swirled it to eddy around them.