The Last Hat

Elena found the hat in the back of Sarah's closet three days after the funeral. A wide-brimmed velvet thing in deep burgundy, the color of dried wine, with a silk ribbon that had started to fray. It smelled of cedar and the expensive perfume Sarah had worn like armor during their years at the firm, back when they'd been each other's closest friend in a world of sharp elbows and sharper tongues.

She should have returned it with the rest of Sarah's belongings. Instead, Elena slipped it into her bag, along with the cat carrier.

Sarah had left everything to her sister, but her sister didn't want Barnaby — an ancient, judgmental tabby who had survived two divorces and Sarah's catastrophic transition from corporate litigator to struggling novelist. "He's your friend now," Sarah's sister had said, handing over the carrier like it contained radioactive waste. "She always said you understood him."

Elena hadn't understood. She'd just been the one who came over on Christmas, the one who remembered to buy the prescription cat food, the one who sat with Sarah through the chemotherapy that had finally, mercifully, ended last week.

That night, Elena set the hat on her kitchen table and watched Barnaby stalk around her apartment like he owned it. He jumped onto the table, sniffed the velvet, and looked at her with yellow eyes that seemed to hold all the unspoken things between her and Sarah — the promotions they competed for, the man they both dated without knowing, the gradual drift from inseparable friends to people who sent birthday texts and meant to have coffee sometime.

Barnaby curled up on the hat, purring like a small engine.

Elena realized she'd never told Sarah that she'd been offered the same partnership, the one Sarah had celebrated with that expensive perfume and the burgundy hat. Elena had turned it down. She'd wanted something different. She'd never found the words to explain why.

The cat closed his eyes. Elena placed her hand on the velvet, soft and worn, and finally let herself cry.