“No. But maybe I’d dare you to take yourself out on a date next week. And show up for yourself without the persona. Tell yourself the truth. Not the funny story. Not the curated version. Just honesty.”
Viv blinks, her long lashes accentuating the motion. “Okay, but that’s far more terrifying.”
Marin clears her throat gently. “What would mine be?”
I glance down at the screen, meeting her eyes as best as I can through the camera. “Write a letter to your husband that says everything you didn’t get to say.”
Marin flinches like I’ve reached through the screen and touched a bruise. She opens her mouth. Closes it. “There were plenty of things that were said. Too many things. It’s why the divorce papers are still in a shoebox, in the closet. I haven’t even—” She stops again, eyes blinking fast. “I don’t need to say morethings. I need to take things back. I mean, he went for a drive to cool off after we fought over the logistics of the separation. Nothing was final. Until everything was final.”
Silence stretches, thick, but not uncomfortable.
Viv speaks first, softer than usual. “That still counts as grief.”
“Maybe you have more to say than you think?” I whisper.
Marin nods.
Frank barks at a squirrel off-camera, giving us a beat to breathe.
Viv recovers first. “Okay. So we’re doing this now? Grief Olympics? Do I get to assign you one?”
“Go for it.”
Viv tilts her head dramatically. “I double dog dare you to flirt with the mailman.”
Marin gasps. “Vivian!”
Viv shrugs. “You said this was about pushing each other. And that man has been bringing her mail with looks that make me think he should be auditioning for a leading role in a rom-com movie.”
I laugh, trying to cover up the pounding in my chest, the ringing in my ears at the mere thought of flirting with another man. “What does this have to do with my grief?”
Viv ignores me and plows ahead. “I think he wears fitted Henleys and smiles like he knows your favorite coffee order.”
Marin giggles. “That’s very specific.”
Viv points at the screen. “I want eye contact. Full smile. And if you really feel bold, maybe ask him if he likes rain.”
“If he likes rain?” I can hear the skepticism in my voice.
Viv squints at me. “You’ve got a tall, broody mailman delivering packages to your porch, and you haven’t rain-troped him yet. You know, accidentally bump into him while it’s pouring, drop your umbrella, stare into his deep blue eyes like it’s a Nicholas Sparks trailer. Come on, Birdie.”
“You want me to rain-trope the mailman?”
Viv leans back into her velvet purple cushion, her eyes serious. “I want you to stop pretending your needs don’t matter. That all you were was a good wife and all you are is a proper mother. That you aren’t someone outside of those roles. That’s what this has to do with your grief.”
Marin’s pale eyes widen. “Viv, that’s actually really good.”
Viv throws her hands in the air, bangles jangling like warning bells. “Of course it is! I contain multitudes.”
“Alright.” I take out the pink flamingo pen that was the obvious choice to go with the sparkly pink notebook. “We each have one week to complete our grief dares. And yes, there will be check-ins.”
Viv’s perfectly plucked eyebrows launch toward her hairline. “Check-ins? Deadlines? What is this, emotional algebra? I didn’t do homework in high school, and I’m certainly not starting now.”
Marin gives a tiny, ladylike snort. “It’s not like we don’t talk every day, regardless, Viv.”
“Yes!” I jump in. “Exactly. We already show up. Accountability is what we need.”
“Not talking about it and getting into bed with potential new candidates is what I need,” Viv mutters, folding her arms dramatically. “Preferably ones with strong forearms and no emotional baggage.”
