“Yep. Paid for it with that horrible duet you had us sing in those hats we found. Never before and never again.”
“I think we could’ve made a career out of busking!” Noah argues.
I level him with a stare. “The years are eroding your memory, my friend. If it hadn’t been for that drunk old man who dropped us a $100 dollar bill, which I’m pretty sure he thought was a $1, we would still be there trying to turn ‘Barbie Girl’ into a duet and arguing over who had to be Ken.”
“Is that why you drug Owen and me to so many nights of karaoke after that? You always were a perfectionist. Was it about redemption at that point?” Noah stares like all the missing pieces of a puzzle are falling into place before his eyes.
I scoff. “No.”
“It totally was! Owen and I know way too many vocals to way too many songs because of you.” Noah’s eyes are wide in horror.
Know. Present tense.
I guess Noah forgets sometimes that he’s gone too.
Maybe Noah senses the shift, sees the way my eyes start to water, because he’s adding, “Don’t forget the hour we spent rating historical monuments on hotness during that trip. You gave Alexander Hamilton a nine, which still feels generous.”
“He had confidence.” I sniff, pulling back the unexpected tears, grateful for the topic change. “That’s sexy in a man. Looks are 50% genetics and 50% confidence. And I did get 82% on the final for that class.”
We’re quiet for a beat, just long enough for memory to settle in.
“You know—” I give a tentative smile “—as awful as that night started, it ended up being one of my favorite parts of the trip.” I twist my finger through the air like I can still feel corduroy brushing my shoulders.
Noah glances at me, and something in his expression shifts. Softer. Sadder. “Mine too.”
I groan and cover my face with the stack of mail. “Maybe it’s just easier to focus on the past. Back then, everything fit—him, me, the life we made. You and my ridiculous side quests. Now I feel like I’ve wandered into someone else’s story.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just looks down at the ground between us like it holds some kind of map.
“Yeah.” When he does speak, his voice is tight and strained. “It was simpler then. You were his. I was… me. And we all knew our parts.”
The breeze shifts, brushing past us like it’s trying to move something along. It brings that scent of cedar and rain and Noah—something so familiar it hurts. One of the envelopes slips from my pile. As I bend to pick it up, so does he, and his fingers brush the inside of my wrist.
The jolt is immediate.
Electric.
Uninvited.
Unfair.
Too much like how Owen used to touch me.
My chest tightens like I’ve been punched. Like Owen’s ghost has curled a fist around my ribs.
He steps back, mirroring my own retreat.
Frank barks from the porch, startling us both.
“Thanks for the mail.” The words come out too fast, and I’m already backing away, blinking against the tears pressing behind my eyes.
Noah straightens, his own face riddled with guilt. His voice shifts into something professional and distant. “I should get back. I’ve got… a ton to do.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” I nod like a bobblehead in a windstorm. “Deadlines. Mail. The world keeps turning.”
He gives a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Take care, B.”
I watch him walk back to his truck, the distance between us growing with every step, and try not to wonder why my grief suddenly feels lonelier now than it did before he showed up.
