Noah had nowhere to go. At least nowhere he wanted to.
We crossed paths in the lounge, both of us clutching cheap microwavable dinners and pretending we didn’t care we were alone. By nightfall, we’d both agreed it was silly not to commiserate together, and we drug our mattresses into the common room like middle schoolers at a sleepover, a tiny TV balanced on a plastic crate between us.
He insisted on a Hallmark marathon.
“You don’t understand.” His eyes were glued to the screen as a predictably rugged widower fell in love with a plucky Christmas tree farm owner. “Ineedthis. No yelling. No slammed doors. No one forgetting I exist. No drama. You know it’s going to end with a happily ever after.” His voice softens. “Sometimes, you need to believe that you can have that.”
He didn’t look at me when he said it.
When he teared up during the scene with the snow globe proposal, I pretended not to notice. Just shoved the gummy bear bag his way while he mumbled something about allergies.
That night, we both stayed up until sunrise, cocooned in cheap blankets and the soft glow of the television broadcasting holiday magic and second chances at love.
Back in the present, Noah drops his hands and gives me a sideways glance. “I still watch them, you know.”
“I figured.” I grin. “You always did have a soft spot for unrealistic men and improbable snowstorms.”
He smirks. “And you always pretended you didn’t cry at the one with the single dad and the wish list.”
I roll my eyes. “That was a fluke.”
He leans back, smug. “Sure it was.”
The dog gives a pitiful moan and Noah tilts his chin toward him. “I think we should take it to the vet. That leg needs a bandage or a cast or something.”
“Frank, remember?” The words come out before I can stop myself. I don’t know why. Naming something already implies permanence, and I have no intention of keeping him.
“And yes… we should take him to the vet.” Another sentence I can’t explain. Logic says I should call a rescue or animal control. Someone with a soft spot for dogs and a budget. But something about his disheveled prune-colored fur makes me think no one else is coming.
Noah’s eyebrows quirk upwards but, to his credit, he doesn’t say anything. He takes the glass of water out of my hand and glances down at his watch. “I’ve got a few more streets to hit, but I’ll see about working a half day. I have so many unused vacation and personal days that my post master will be thrilled I’m taking an afternoon off. Can you manage for a bit?”
“Manage a dog with a limp and my deep, engrained, soul-crushing sense of maternal responsibility?” I give a half shrug. “That’s my entire personality.”
He smiles, easy and unbothered. “I’ll swing back by when I’m done, and I can help you take him in, if you’d like.”
Then he lifts Frank off the carpet, moving him onto the plush green towel I’ve laid next to him like it’s nothing.
He sets Frank down gently before turning toward the door. “Back soon!”
I nod. “Go deliver the nation’s coupons.”
I’d forgotten how easy it is to talk to Noah. How much I used to love it. I’m still grinning like a middle schooler with a crush, and I don’t love the way my stomach flips ashe walks away. It used to do that for Noah. And then I met Owen. And the rest is history.
I close the door and exhale—maybe a breath I’d been holding, or maybe a sigh. Or maybe it’s grief again, doing that thing where it shapeshifts into longing and shows up in places it doesn’t belong.
I look down at Frank. He blinks up at me like he knows.
I’m too old for this.
Too worn down.
Too… widowed.
Still, I grab my phone and type out a message.
Me: Hypothetically, if someone felt a flicker, a flutter, an uncalled-for awareness of someone’s biceps. Would that be a symptom of perimenopause, or do we blame that on grief too?
Marin: …what kind of biceps?
