Viv: BIRDIE. WHAT DID YOU SEE. WHO DID YOU SEE. WHERE CAN I FIND HIM.
Me: There was a dog. I named him Frank. He hurt his leg. One of my good friends, who also happens to be my mailman, carried him back to my house. He was best friends with Owen. I shouldn’t notice his biceps.
Marin: Hormones. You’ll live. Also, please describe the lift in greater detail.
Viv: NO. I need to know his name, route, availability, and if he owns a flannel.
Me: Focus, ladies. Frank. Smile. Lift. Biceps. Guilt.
______________
Noah pulls back into the driveway as I’m wrapping Frank in an old beach towel. The poor dog looks like a disheveled burrito.
“Ready?” He nods toward the pickup truck idling in my driveway. He’s still in his uniform, though his shirt is a little rumpled now, and there’s a speck of dirt on his cheek that, if I were someone else, I might feel something about.
Instead, I gesture toward the green towel where I’ve already cooked Frank a chicken breast and given him a big bowl of water. “He’s not great with small talk, but he appreciates the ride.”
“Good.” Noah shoots me another one of those annoying smiles. “I can carry the conversation.”
He lifts Frank again, easy and sure. I follow behind, heart steady, breath even, nothing stirred—guilt and mourning firmly back in their rightful places.
Frank groans dramatically from the backseat of the truck as Noah pulls out into traffic.
“Vet’s probably going to ask how it happened.” Noah nods toward the back. “What do we tell them?”
“That he was contemplating the meaning of life in the middle of the road and miscalculated the curb.”
“I’ll let you handle that. You clearly have a gift with words.”
The sun rests low in the sky—golden in a cinematic way that makes people fall in love by accident.
I don’t.
But I do notice that Noah adjusts the radio when it’s too loud, and that he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near mine. Owen used to drape his hand over the center console and rest it on my leg. It’s been a long time since someone’s done that.
We drive a few more streets in comfortable silence, save for Frank’s occasional groan and the dull tap of turn signals.
“I think this is the most we’ve talked in years.” As soon as I say it, I regret it. We’re hardly talking now.
“I wasn’t sure where I fit after Owen passed.” Noah keepshis eyes on the road, his voice low. “Wasn’t sure if I should check on you, or really how, outside from delivering the mail.”
“Even before that.”
Noah’s face flushes, and his eyes bore into the road. “I wanted to respect Owen. Still do.”
I wait for further explanation, but when none comes, I add, “You could've called.”
“Don’t have your number anymore. My phone fell in the lake on that fishing trip Owen and I took a few years back. Lost all the contacts.” He lets out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh but doesn’t quite get there. “Felt weird asking for your number after so many years. If I needed to talk to you, I could talk through Owen.”
I nod, letting the silence stretch a second too long.
“Still, it's nice. Talking like this.”
He glances at me briefly and smiles.
At the vet, he opens my door before I can grab the handle.
My stomach still does a little flip like it always did when he opened the door for me in college. “You don’t need to do that.”
