When the knocking fails to wake me, Miss Molly takes it upon herself to ruse me from a dream state I would like to have stayed in, preferably forever. "What is it? What are you doing?" But before I can open my eyes her wet nose is up against my cheek. "Alright, okay, fine. I'm awake. Now what's the emergency?"

More knocking and an excited bark from Miss Molly. "It bothers me how excited you get to see him," I scold her gently. "You know that, right?"

Unperturbed, Miss Molly runs in circles, her tail wagging so hard her entire body becomes an obscure U-shape. "You're going to hurt yourself," I grin. "Settle down."

With no time to find a brush, I pull my messy hair into a ponytail and consider leaving him out on the stoop while I clean my teeth, but he's seen me at my worst and sometimes it gets a lot uglier than this, so instead I turn and follow Miss Molly downstairs. "I'm coming, hold on..."

By the time I get to the final step Miss Molly is pawing at the door. "Now that's just embarrassing," I smile. "Didn't anyone ever teach you about playing hard to get?"

I unbolt the latch and the rich aroma of coffee brings a smile to my face. "Almond milk mocha?"

He nods and as usual I cave. "Alright come inside."

Today his suit is royal blue, accompanied by the same lavender tie he wore on my last day in the office. A day that feels like a million years ago.

Miss Molly throws herself at him, her front feet reaching his thighs and golden hair immediately attaching to his perfect pant legs.

"Molly get down," I tell her, "we've talked about this. Sorry..."

"Aww, it's alright isn't its Miss Molly?" he smiles, playfully rubbing her head. "At least someone is happy to see me." He hands me the cup and strolls easily toward the kitchen window. "Your back-lawn need doing yet?"

"Bastian..."

"What?" he shrugs. "I'm just asking. It's summer. Grass grows fast."

"I know, but I can do it myself."

"I can't remember the last time I saw you go out there."

And there it is. That tone. That judgmental, sympathetic, degrading, tone that screams 'you're an unstable, incapable, good for nothing waste of space, who can't mow her own grass.'

"Don't do that," I tell him. "I can mow my own lawn and I sat out there yesterday if you must know."

He nods knowing better than to challenge me. "Okay, I'll believe you. Come here..."

"Bastian..."

"Sophie come here and stop being such a pain in the arse."

Knowing he will win me over eventually, I shuffle toward him, grey sweatpants hanging loose and sleep still in my eyes. "Why do you come here and do this?"

"You know why." He gently tucks a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. "Tell me you know why."

I want to look away, to tear my eyes from his, but as usual they pull me in. "Fine, I know why."

"Then let me help you."

I sigh and gently trace the olive skin of his cheek. "Fine, you can mow my grass."

"I thought of you last night," he says. "Anniversaries must be hard on you?"

I pull away, the moment between us instantly broken. Yesterday marked five years since the accident and yet another man mentioning my husband's name still feels like a betrayal.

"Did you get through the night okay?" he tries again. "I'm just asking Sophie. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"I know, but it's hard for me. I still feel like...

"...you're betraying him?"

I flop onto the couch and pull my knees to my chest. "It's like when I'm with you there's a part of me that's still in relationship mode and it helps keep me in the place I was with him, but at the same time... I feel so guilty letting anyone else in. In one way it feels I'm like betraying him, but then I wonder, if I close that part of me off completely will it be like he was never here at all?"

"Sophie -"

"I know how it sounds Bastian and I don't expect you to listen to all my problems. I don't even know why you keep coming over to be honest."

"I hope that's not how you think I feel?"

I throw up my hands. "But surely it can't be worth it? I mean look at me, I'm a mess. You can't be attracted to me. I'm 10 pounds overweight because I only eat what can be delivered to my door. I haven't put on lipstick since, God, I don't know when, and most of the time my hair isn't even brushed. I cry half the time, I'm angry the other, and in between -"

"You're still incredibly smart and beautiful," he says, "and you're doing your best. I'm not trying to be him Soph, I need you to know that. For so many reasons, I would never do that."

Just outside the window a tiny sparrow hops between the green leaves of a Dogwood tree.

"And besides," he grins, sitting down beside me, "who said anything about coming to see you? The only reason I come over is to see Miss Molly. I thought you knew that?"

I manage something that almost sounds like a laugh. "Well she likes seeing you that's for sure. But I feel like you're wasting your time with me Bastian. I'm just... broken or something."

"You're not, and besides, who am I to judge? We all have our issues Sophie, Jesus." He runs a hand through his thick brown hair. "I'm hardly a great catch but we found each other and that's what matters. Not every relationship has to have a label on it."

I take him in. Broad shoulders from his days playing full-back for the Tigers at Princeton. Slender, artistic fingers. Straight, determined nose. When we first met he reminded me of a compass, perpetually facing north, unwavering and resilient. Then I came along. A magnetic field, misfiring and bound to pull him off course.

"Why are your eyes so blue anyway?" I ask, changing the subject. "I thought all Italians had dark eyes?"

"Because Signora, my family is from Veneto in Northern Italy," he exclaims with a mimicked Italian accent and dramatic wave of his hand. "My family comes from a small village outside Verona, home of the famed star-crossed lovers Romeo and Juliet."

"Oh God... why did I ask?"

He grins and pulls me into the dip beneath his shoulder. "But seriously Soph, we should go there someday, just the two of us."

"That wouldn't go well."

"I mean it Soph, there's Venice but there's also beautiful mountain ranges and medieval villages. It would do you good to get away."

"Bastian, I think it's time you went to work. You'll be late."

"It's not like the boss is going to fire me."

"Ever heard of leading by example?" I laugh. "Seriously, you should get going."

"Will you at least think about the trip?"

"No, that's ridiculous. First, I can barely make it to the market without having a full-blown panic attack. Second, I have Miss Molly. And third, well, let's not get started on third."

"Let me worry about third. I can make it work."

"No you can't, and if you did, you'd hate yourself. Now thank you for the coffee and for checking in on me, but you better get going."

He gets to his feet, his tall frame forcing me to stand on tippy toes to kiss him goodbye. "I do appreciate the thought though," I tell him. "Maybe in another life we could have wandered the streets of fair Verona holding hands and I would have loved that."

He nods and kisses me softly on the forehead. "Call if you need anything, alright?"

"I will."

"Promise?"

"Promise. And thanks again for the coffee."

He kisses me one last time on the cheek and I know what's coming.

"I don't want to hassle you Soph, but that Jackson manuscript is due in today," he reminds me. "Think you'll get through editing it?"

"Yes boss," I grin.

"Don't call me that. You know I hate that."

"Well technically..."

"Yeah I know, but it's weird."

"Come back for dinner? Miss Molly said she'll order your favorite pizza, quattro stagioni from Napoli around the corner."

"I'd love to Soph," he sighs, "but I can't tonight. Madelyn-May has some Women in Business conference she's speaking at so I'm home with the kids."

"Of course," I nod, hating myself for having asked. "No problem."

"Sorry..."

"No need to be sorry, you're a great dad. You shouldn't have to apologize."

"Not for them, for the Madelyn-May part." He drops his eyes and kicks at an invisible stone on the stoop. "She's just..."

"...your wife Bastian. There's no need to apologize."

"I know, but still..."

"Miss Molly and I will be fine," I tell him, "and I'll email the manuscript through by 2pm."

I close the door and press my back against the wood. The situation is far from ideal but somehow knowing we can never be together, that he can never fill the space James left behind, makes the guilt of needing him a little easier to bear.

After making toast and pulling on a clean sweater, I grab the manila folder that's been gathering dust on my desk and brace myself for what's to come. Even if the entire day is dedicated to working on the Jackson manuscript, I'll never get it done in time. At my feet Miss Molly licks her lips and I slip her the last corner of toast. "You happy now? You've eaten my breakfast."

Content with her corner of jam-covered toast, Miss Molly pads over to the checked dog bed beside my desk and flops down. A full day of editing someone else's work can get tiresome but at the same time if it's good enough and the writer talented enough, it might transport me away from my own tear-jerking tale.

When the computer comes to life, I open the file marked Jackson Manuscript. My notes and changes will be made on the electronic version for the author to see, but I like to read the old-fashioned way; holding paper in my hands. Bastian makes fun of it calling me old fashioned and analogue, but the texture of the paper provides an authenticity that helps me lose myself in the story. It's a practice I try to implement throughout every aspect of my daily life. Ever since the accident I have shunned the internet and any form of social media. As an editor, all my communications are provided via email but that is my cut off, the boundary of my safety zone. I know there are undeniable benefits and efficiencies that technology provides, the way it allows people to reach out and see in, but it's just not for me.

"Alright Miss Molly, we'll break for lunch at 12.30pm. Sound good?"

I take her disinterest as a resounding yes and flip open the folder. According to Bastian, the author Angela Jackson is going to be the next Jodi Picoult and he's thrilled her agent chose his company Marozzi Publishing to help debut her first novel.

'What's it about?' I asked when he initially handed me the folder over some mediocre Chinese take-out.

'I actually think you'll enjoy this Soph. It's about a mother's search for her missing son.'

At the time my fork clattered onto the plate and I stared at him in disbelief. 'You've got to be kidding? You know I can't deal with something like that right now.'

But he had been adamant, 'It's not what you think. It will be hard for you in some ways, sure, but that's why you're the perfect person to edit it Soph. No one has more perspective on this subject than you. It's going to hit the Times Best-Seller List. I can feel it and we need a Piccoult in our stable. You can do this. I know you can.'

The manuscript has been gathering dust ever since, mostly because I've been too afraid to open it. "Okay, here we go Miss Molly," I breathe. "Let's hope this little exercise doesn't end badly."