“Tonight isn’t about loss. It’s about love. It’s about all the joy Owen brought into the world, and the way it still lingers in every ridiculous story, every laugh, every one of you.”
My gaze sweeps the backyard, the twinkle lights, the photo wall, the karaoke machine already humming to life, and I roll my eyes a little at my own overused, cheesy request.
“So please, sing like you mean it. Dance like nobody’s filming. Be a little too loud and a little too sentimental. Because if Owen were here, he’d be the first one on the mic and the last one off the dance floor.”
I lift my glass a little higher.
“Here’s to Owen. And to making the most of the birthdays we get.”
Laughter. Clinks of glass. Someone sniffs a little too loudly.
I smile, but my throat tightens.
Because there’s a hole in this night shaped exactly like the man I loved.
Off-key karaoke drifts in from the backyard, someone absolutely murdering a Bon Jovi song. There’s laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional screech of a chair dragging across the deck. Someone honks into a tissue like a foghorn, then immediately starts laughing again.
The kind of night that smells like summer and spilled beer and cheap citronella candles working overtime.
Near the firepit, someone’s trying to balance a flaming marshmallow on a plastic spoon while the crowd chants “CHUG IT.” The tables are a mix of dollar-store luau kits and leftover Fourth of July decor—tiny American flags shoved into pineapple centerpieces. Viv brought matching koozies that say Resting Birthday Face. Harper made jello shots shaped like tiny beach balls. Thewhole thing is charmingly chaotic, just shy of a health code violation.
I duck into the kitchen for a breather, fanning myself with a paper plate that says “Over the Hill and Hot as Ever” in glittery script. But before I can make it to the fridge for a cold drink, the photo wall catches my eye.
It’s a tradition, one Owen and I started years ago, where we have a wall of Polaroids and snapshots that guests can add to, along with a stack of neon sticky notes and glitter pens for jotting down memories. This year, Harper outdid herself, framing it all in mismatched wood like a scrapbook exploded on the wall.
There’s one of Owen covered in silly string from his 30th, and another of us in our twenties, wearing matching party hats and tipsy grins. Someone’s written:
“Owen once dared me to sing ‘SexyBack’ at karaoke and ended up joining me with a tambourine.”
Another says:
“He showed up to my birthday party in a banana costume. No one had invited him. It was perfect.”
I laugh, touching the corner of the whipped-cream-smeared photo from his 34th, right after I smashed the birthday pie in his face. Of course it wasn’t an official party. He hadn’t let me do anything big that year. He said all he wanted was for me to bring him a birthday pie in my birthday suit. I remember how he looked at me, like I was the whole party.
The ache comes quick and sharp, but not enough to knock the smile off my face. Because this? This is how Owen would’ve wanted us to celebrate. Loud. Ridiculous. With a little chaos anda lot of cake. After all these years, I finally threw the party that he would’ve loved— imperfect, unpolished, not color coordinated.
And he’s not here to enjoy it.
And just as I turn to head back out?—
“Birdie!”
I look up at the sound of the familiar husky voice.
And there he is.
Noah.
Looking like he walked straight out of one of the Polaroids.
He’s standing at the door to the back patio, framed in gold light and shadow, holding a bottle of wine and wearing the expression of a man who feels he walked into a moment he shouldn’t have.
He’s a little late. And for a moment, I remember that this must be hard for him too.
He steps in and sets the bottle on the table next to me. “You look… beautiful.”
I swallow. “It’s Owen’s favorite dress.”
