Hi. I'm Birdie Lawson. I used to run the PTA, plan polite birthday parties, and write thank-you notes on monogrammed stationery. Then my husband dropped dead in the butterfly garden, and my picture-perfect suburban life went with him. If you, too, have a dead husband, questionable coping skills, and an inconvenient crush on your late husband's infuriatingly hot ex-best friend who happens to be your mailman... pull up a chair. You're one of us now. The Dead Husbands Society No dues. No dress code. Bring snacks. We're tired of casserole. Perks of membership: Two wildly inappropriate widow friends A pink glitter notebook full of grief dares (most dares include the hot mailman) Questionable recovery tactics. I'm done with well-behaved mourning. Now I'm here for messy living-complete with a Conga line, an ill-advised goat wine bar, and forbidden late-night kisses with the man I should absolutely not want... but absolutely do. Please join us. We have t-shirts and kombucha. The Dead Husbands Society: A wickedly funny, unexpectedly sexy novel about grief, friendship, and letting yourself fall hard-for life, and your mailman, all over again.