I got the idea to call my dead sister’s cell phone from the movie P.S. I Love you, a story about a young woman whose husband suddenly dies.

Following the funeral, the wife lies in bed calling his cell phone over and over.

It was the saddest thing I’d ever seen.

When my sister Melissa died, I called her constantly.

I sobbed when she didn’t answer.

I sobbed listening to her voicemail and I obsessed.

I pulled my family into it.

It was a little funny.

During one of my routine calls to Melissa, something weird happened.

Something that barged in on my pity party.

Something that introduced me to Jeff.

I hung up on Jeff.

Melissa’s cell phone account had only been closed a few months. My beloved calling routine had been taken from me by Jeff, aided by the dicks over at Verizon.

As pack leader, it was my job to ensure that my younger brother and sister knew how to react.

Fueled by “coping-with-depression-via-alcohol,” I made a call.

I gauged his reaction to a drunk dial.

He seemed game.

Jeff and I connected immediately.

But I had the right number. And it was Jeff’s.

Jeff and I had an amazing summer together.

I couldn’t wait to get him on the line for a rip-roaring chat.

Classic Jeff.

I don’t remember much of our conversations.

What I do remember is the excitement shared when Jeff and I connected on the line.

If my life was a movie, Jeff getting Melissa’s phone number would have been one of those silver-lining things you hear about when people die. Like Jeff and I were supposed to meet. And Melissa dying was the only way that could happen.

A few months into my new routine with Jeff, I got a text from an unknown number.

My life isn’t exactly like a sad movie.