This book was recommended to me because a close friend recently died by suicide, and it was very healing to read it. It’s a strange position to be in, not a wife, brother, or even best friend, of the deceased, but still needing to find a way to carry the grief. For that reason, and because the author is in a similar position, I really enjoyed it. Whether or not others would appreciate it probably depends on how much they like Sloane Crosley’s style of writing.

As a memoir, it has a number of flaws, but my biggest problem with it is that it has a LOT of romanticization about New York. As a native Californian, I find romanticization of New York exhausting, it’s a breathless enthusiasm for caring about the wrong things. There is so much it becomes tedious, and takes a full star off my rating.

Otherwise, it’s a thoughtful read that essentially examines the questions, “How deeply do we really know those closest to us?” and “How do we keep moving through life when a person we cared about no longer moves forward in it with us?”