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deep coma, with Kristen at his side, telling him that if he needed to go, then she would be okay. And then he went. And she wasn’t okay.
     
    A few months later, Kristen moved in with Lisa, across the street from my apartment. Often she didn’t want to see friends, but when she did I made sure to be available. I’d meet her at the park one afternoon and then I might not hear from her for a month or two. I tried to do what Tom Hanks or Billy Crystal might have done for Meg Ryan were it a Nora Ephron film—I offered my company, without expecting her to want it. It was a tactic that prevented me from leaving more than three or four silly messages on her voice mail at a time and allowed me to pretend as though no time had passed when she finally called.
    What brought our friendship back to life was, strangely, my girlfriend at the time. Funny how the complete disintegration of one relationship can salvage another. Andrea was a beautiful Italian cellist with hair that spiraled down to her shoulders in tight curls. She got my humor and didn’t complain when I’d listen to the same music albums over and over. She was also the only girlfriend of mine Kristen had ever liked, and when it seemed as though Andrea and I weren’t clicking anymore, she urged me—even coached me—to make it work.
    “This week, I think you should make time to talk with Andrea,” she told me one evening over a cup of coffee. “Tell her you feel distant and that you don’t know why. Tell her that you feel there’s a problem and that you want to work it out with her.”
    It had been more than a year since the accident, and Kristen was finally starting to seem okay. Not happy yet, not at peace, but okay. All things considered, I was happy for okay.
    “That sounds like a good plan,” I said, balling up little shreds of brown paper napkin. “I’ll try that.”
    “Try not to overthink it,” Kristen said, eyeing the balls of shredded napkin. “Just talk to her. See where the conversation goes, the way you do with me. You two will figure it out.”
    That night was the first of what would become a standing Tuesday-evening engagement: the two of us getting together for overpriced coffee and free therapy. Each week, we took turns dishing to each other about our respective circumstances. She would listen patiently while I overanalyzed my love life, and because I lacked the normal social skills that might prevent a person from prying, I turned out to be a great conversational partner when she needed to talk about Mike. Unlike most people, I wasn’t intimidated by Kristen’s sadness and she found it refreshing to be able to open up and speak candidly with someone.
    At the end of each session, we would prescribe little assignments for each other. I tried to suggest fun activities to keep her amused, to bring the joy back into her life. Fortunately, acting selfishly as a means of preserving happiness was second nature to me, so I was good at coming up with suggestions. I often encouraged her to go shopping, her favorite pastime. Within a few weeks, she had acquired a second wardrobe. “Spring is just around the corner,” she said with a laugh one night, joining me at Starbucks with two armfuls of shopping bags. Most of my other suggestions—taking vacations, journaling, visiting with friends—produced equally positive results.
    Kristen’s assignments for me, however, were not as successful. I joined her for our tenth cup of coffee with the news that Andrea and I had broken up. We were good on paper—logically it made sense—but it didn’t work. Love and logic don’t always see eye to eye.
     
    As Kristen and I grew closer, our Tuesday evenings grew longer. We were often the last people to leave the coffee shop, and we started finding it difficult to say good night to each other. What began as coffee once a week became coffee twice a week. Then three times a week plus dinner. Most nights, we chatted and laughed out loud, but other nights we’d