Marin smirks. “So, fictional men then.”
Before Viv can launch into her ideal, emotionally-disconnected but physically fully-connected ideal fling, Frank suddenly veers off the path, nose to the ground like he’s on a mission from God.
“Oh no,” I mutter, tugging at the leash. “Not here, Frank. Not now.”
But it’s too late. He circles once, twice, the universal sign that my next five minutes are about to get undignified.
I glance at the screen. “Well, I won’t subject you all to watching me help Frank handle his digestive journey.”
Viv lets out a cackle. “Before you go, I need to say, the notebook and pen is perfection. When will mine be here?”
“I splurged and didn’t want to chicken out, so I overnighted it. Viv, can you write down Marin’s? I’ll write down yours, and Marin can write down mine. Don’t forget to add it’s a double-dog dare. No take-backsies. I didn’t chicken out on the playground, and I’m not starting here.”
“Still sounds like homework, but I guess the flamingo does make it better. My next challenge had better not have anything to do with catching feelings on dates. Or I’m quitting.” Viv levels me with a fierce stare.
“You can’t quit! It’s in the bylaws.” I reach for the little green plastic bag with a sigh. “The eighth meeting of the Dead Husbands Society is officially adjourned.”
The screen fills with waves and eye rolls, and on that note, I click “end meeting” and get to work addressing Frank’s needs.
Chapter Seven
I swipe on mascara like I’m getting ready for a red carpet, not my front porch. It’s the first time I’ve worn makeup in weeks, and no, it has nothing to do with the mailman. It’s about the dare. I don't half-ass a dare. Even if my hands are shaking, my heart is pounding, and I’m 100% sure that flirting with Noah will win me the Worst Widow of the Year trophy.
“Stop spiraling, Birdie.” I give myself a stern glare in my entryway mirror. “It’s just a normal Wednesday.”
A normal Wednesday where I happen to be wearing my favorite jeans, the ones that make my butt look like I still do daily Pilates, and a snug, floral blouse that has no visible dog hair.
Frank watches me from the rug by the front door, his head tilted like he’s trying to figure out who I’m trying to impress. I smooth my dark strands and avoid eye contact with his judgmental brown eyes.
“I’m allowed to be curious about a person,” I mutter, checking the time. “It’s not a crime to be aware of another human being. And this is about moving past grief and developing my sense of self. And proving to the girls that things are moving along nicely in the emotional baggage department.”
He blinks.
I raise my eyebrows, which I may or may not have plucked this morning. Just because they needed plucking, mind you. “I’m not flirting. I’m being neighborly.” Why am I trying to justify this to a dog? And why does my dog seem so judgmental?
The truth is, I’ve timed the mail delivery. It usually arrives between 9:36 and 9:46, depending on how bogged down Noah is with packages for the day. I glance out the window for the third time in five minutes, then force myself to sit on the couch and pretend to read a book. It’s some romance Viv recommended and it’s not doing anything for my nerves. I keep glancing toward the driveway like a teenager waiting for their prom date.
When the mailbox clangs shut, my heart hiccups.
Frank lets out a single bark.
“Nope.” I bolt up. “We’re not running to the door. We are not chasing the mailman.” I give Frank a pointed look. “We are calm. We are composed.”
We are peeking through the curtains like it’s a neighborhood stakeout.
Noah is halfway down the driveway, the sun catching the dark waves of his hair. He’s wearing his usual navy USPS polo, and somehow, it fits him as if it were tailored. He looks like he belongs on one of those fake calendars Viv would ironically order—Hot Mailmen of the Pacific Northwest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the door and attempt to look casual, as though I were passing by and not peeking out of my curtains every twenty seconds.
“Noah!” My voice is entirely too loud, and I’m pretty sure I hear a few birds stop midsong in panic.
He turns, surprised. “Hey, Birdie.” He walks back toward me, casual, his gait loose and confident. “Did I forget a package? You look nice. Going somewhere?”
“Oh! No.” I run a hand through my long, dark hair, which I’m sure makes my stick-straight bangs stand on end. “I wanted to say hi.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Hi.”
“So, how’s the weather?”
