A long time ago, I applied for a job. There were two openings. I was hired, and the other spot went to a woman named Denise. We were the only two women on the tech staff, about the same age, both born in Tallahassee, both educated, both vegetarians, same build and hair.

We became friends, and she began going out to dinner with me and John. She had just gotten out of a dead-end relationship, and we were thrilled a few years later when she met Steve, the stellar guy she later married. That friendship cemented itself when she brought Steve and their dogs, complete with a homemade sign, to cheer me on when I ran a marathon (an event so dull and protracted that no sane person should show up, even the participants). And then, without needing to be blackmailed, she read a literary fiction novel I wrote. She said she loved it, and then she asked two dozen questions that referenced actual details. Even I didn’t care that much.

Over the next seven years, Denise and I traveled the world for work. She volunteered her purse for me to throw up into at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul (not Constantinople). She explored the vibrant markets and cafes of Barcelona, while I hid in the hotel and worked on a novel. Denise was also, briefly, kidnapped by a taxi driver in Bucharest and had to pay him off to deliver her to our hotel. Once our boss screwed up our flights from Europe, sending us to Albany, Georgia. We rented a white stretch limo at the airport and rode all the way back to Tallahassee, which was cheaper than new flights

Denise was the one I could trust when things got bad—very, very bad—and a year after that, when I ran out of options, she understood that I had to quit.

We stayed in touch over the next five years, though not as much as I should have. Our last lunch was in December 2019, and on Christmas Day she was taken to the ER where she was diagnosed with Stage 4 stomach cancer. I was in line at Publix when I found out. I was crying so hard by the time I reached the register that both the bag boy and the cashier offered to carry my bags out; they looked relieved when I said no.

Looking back on 2020, most of us will remember things like schools closing, toilet paper shortages, and a country on fire. I’ll remember trying to figure out what an appropriate gift is for a terminal cancer patient. I agonized over how to write the perfect text to a dying friend, then nervously waited for her response. And she always answered, even after surgery for a new tumor—cheerful, determined, gonna beat this.

Then this week I got a call. There were not going to be any more messages. Denise had taken a sudden turn: she had passed away.

I’m sure no one wants 2020 to come back, but I do. I do, because Denise is there.

“I feel your love & support, and right back at you. Love you both!!”

—DBS, Christmas Eve, 2020