“It was great to catch up,” I say.

“It was. How about you don’t let another few months go by?”

“Sure,” I lie, grief gripping me by the throat. “Goodbye, Mom.”

I fight the urge to say something—anything—to keep her on the phone. Instead I wait for her to hang up, knowing I can’t do it myself. I put my phone away and gather my flower purchases to take up to the cashier stand. Still nothing from Eric.

“End of those pretty pink begonias,” the owner says. “You sure you don’t want to grab some more? They’re gonna die in this heat here.”

“Why not?”

If I can’t save myself, maybe I can save some begonias.

For a long time, when I thought about death, I thought of my sister. During a trip to the Southold Book Cottage to pick up new stock for the Stars Harbor library, I spotted a nonfiction book about the afterlife. I devoured it in one night. It made me laugh out loud, in the dark, alone in my bed. And that was better than crying.

It also made me curious. Since it was unlikely I would see death coming, what might I expect in the moments after it took hold of me? A computer doesn’t shut down in an instant, and if you think it does, try shutting down with thirty-five tabs open and ten apps running. It takes longer to shut every process down, one by one.

I found other nonfiction titles about the afterlife as told by those lucky enough to come back to detail the journey for the uninitiated. Their accounts were astonishingly similar, as well as incredibly personal. The most common theme was being reunited with a beloved family member in a serene setting. If I imagine my crossover scenario, I expect to see Andi by the water as we have a conversation that’s open and honest and leads to a beautiful connection while watching the sunset.

At home, I wait for the gate to open and watch the Victorian house that Andi, Eric, and I built appear on the horizon. I admit it isn’t just the begonias that help me cheat death. Stars Harbor is my refusal to die, at least in one sense of the word. I accept that my body will expire tomorrow, and yet I will also live on with this business I created. To ensure that, I need one thing. One final piece of the puzzle.

FARAH

I have never been so terrified to be alone with Aimee—never felt anything but excited—yet after my reading and the threat of having to yell out my deepest desire over a bluff, I’m on edge. My secret is already out in the universe in some sense, and although Rini would never tell anyone, there’s no way to take it back. Maybe that’s a good thing, I think now as Aimee and I walk side by side along the bluff after the failed Sun Worship exercise. It will force me back to myself.

An ugly flower of doubt bloomed weeks ago, and since then I’ve been carrying a level of uncertainty I’ve never experienced in my life. I knew I would be a doctor in elementary school and never veered from the course. Within a month of meeting Joe, it became inevitable that we’d hit the appropriate dating milestones before getting married in three to five years. I’ve always been able to lock in on the long road ahead. Now all I see is what’s right in front of me and that’s Aimee. It’s disorienting.

“Should we go back?” Aimee asks.

“No, let’s keep going. Walk a little farther along the bluff.”

The force of my own assertion surprises me. It sounds like the old Farah, clear and direct. Not the waffling one who has been off-kilter for the last few weeks, since the dream. Rini called it a vision, but I still blush at the obscenity of it.

While I slept one night, I imagined Aimee in my office. She was laid bare in a thin paper gown on my exam table. Like a good doctor, I told her everything I was going to do before I did it, but my words sounded like a phone-sex operator, not a seasoned OB. For her part, Aimee consented with small nods and soft moans. Her body melted under my fingers. When I woke up, I still ached for her, but it was Joe next to me. He was happy to finish the job.

The next time I saw Aimee after that night, I flushed with shame. Fifteen minutes into the playdate that day, I pretended I’d been called to the hospital for an emergency. At home I locked myself in the bathroom and cried until my three-year-old shrieked because the stinky in his diaper was burning.

While I smeared diaper cream on him, I reminded myself the dream wasn’t real. I’d never once had a thought that crossed the line at work, let alone taken an action that was questionable. Aimee hadn’t been a patient in eight years, not since she became my friend in our postpartum Baby Yoga class. I drew that line even though technically there was no conflict. It would have been weird, and I don’t come anywhere near “weird.”

Defending my reputation as a doctor as a result of this fantasy had been much easier than looking at what my marriage might be lacking. Joe and I were great partners, but we’d lost a deeper connection years ago. We weren’t even best friends like we’d been when we dated. Aimee had taken that spot. And now she was igniting the passion Joe and I had lost too.

Unlike Aimee, who had divulged some of her same-sexcapades, I’d never kissed a girl in my whole life. Never felt that kind of desire.

Rini suggested my whole world was about to change this weekend, but she was wrong. My whole world changed weeks ago, when I had that dream, but now Rini warned that the planet of communication would push me to tell Aimee. Even though I don’t believe in astrology I swear that, post–Sun Worship, I can feel the planetary pull.

“I want to walk and talk,” I say to Aimee.

“Okay, we can FaceTime the kids when we get back.”

At her prompting, I check my phone. There’s a text message from my husband.

“Joe’s on the road,” I say absentmindedly.

Aimee links her arm in mine. “Our time alone is limited,” she laughs.

She doesn’t know it’s not a joke for me and that now there’s a clock ticking in my head. Following my feelings would lead me away from the trappings of the nice life I have with my family—a penthouse apartment, a summer home in Southampton, two kids in great private schools.

In the hospital, impossible choices are decided in a split second, but in my life I seem to do nothing but delay. I can feel patience being sucked out of the air around me, like when I say I’m bored hanging around the nurses’ station waiting for mothers to progress in labor and the universe retaliates by having them dilate to ten centimeters in the same hour.

I try to break down my mental block to envisioning life with Aimee. It wouldn’t be all that different from now. I would go to work every day, and Aimee would have more kids to play with. I could take the financial hit of divorce; my practice is flourishing. Aimee would have the support of my nanny too. We’d coordinate custody to arrange weekly date nights, and regular carefree weekends to go on adventures (for her), or stay in and binge trashy television (for me).

The details come together a little in my mind, and I start to feel happy, but the big picture worries me. Will the neighbors accept us or ostracize us? How will the kids react? Lurking deeper in my subconscious is the question I don’t dare ask even myself: Would Aimee actually choose me? It’s too scary to think about.

“I guess this means you’re ready to tell me what’s really going on with Beckett,” Aimee says.

“What?” I ask, confused.

“You said you wanted to talk, and I’ve been waiting for you to come back to it since the car ride out here.”

I take a beat and Aimee gives me space. We walk in silence, alternating between looking out at the vast ocean on the horizon and the beautiful, varied homes along the walk. After Rini’s reading, it almost feels like a relief to talk about the logistics of this.

“Have you ever thought something was wrong with him?” I ask.

“Wrong with Beckett?”

I’m messing this all up, as I knew I would. “Not wrong. That perhaps he might need some medical intervention or support,” I clarify.

“No, I’ve never thought that,” Aimee says.

If Aimee’s never noticed, then maybe this line of thinking is a mistake.

“I could see you holding him to a standard that’s too high for an eight-year-old. Is that what’s happening?” she adds.

I shake my head. “There are some patterns. Things I don’t see in Clara.”

“Clara is an old soul. She’s not a fair measurement.”

It’s tempting to defer to mommy expert Aimee, but no, I can’t ignore my suspicions on this. I’ve witnessed it with my own eyes and ears. “I might have him evaluated.”

Aimee shrugs. “Sure, why not ask some questions? Will you take him to his pediatrician or a child psychologist?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if I can handle this, Aimee.”

My voice cracks unexpectedly. Aimee stops and turns to face me.

“We’ll get through it together,” she says, holding my shoulders.

She doesn’t say “as a couple,” but I hear “together” and my confidence creeps back. At work people expect me to have answers because I’m a doctor. But I don’t have to wear my doctor hat for my son. I’m a regular mom who has questions. That doesn’t mean I’m failing—not yet anyway.