“I said I was open to them. There’s a difference.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that feels warm instead of heavy. And then Viv tilts her head, a glint returning to her eye. “Speaking of emotional beef, Birdie. How did your flirting dare go? Did you throw yourself at the mailman’s feet?”
“Oh God,” I groan, covering my face with both hands. “It was a disaster.”
Viv perks up immediately, the coral pink streaks in her hair reflecting the warm glow of the Himalayan salt lamp. “Delicious. Do tell.”
I peek through my fingers. “I wore mascara and my good jeans. Frank stared at me like I was a total stranger without my signature t-shirt and bathrobe. So that was a nice confidence boost. I kept peeking out the window like a deranged teenager. And then, when Noah actually showed up, I panicked and asked him about the weather like it was 1952. And then, then, I asked him if he’d ever auditioned for a sexy mailman calendar.”
Viv makes an audible choking sound. Marin’s eyes widen. “You did not.”
“I did. And then I blurted out that I wasn’t flirting. Which was, of course, also a lie. He told me I was terrible at it, and honestly? He wasn’t wrong.”
Viv fans herself. “But did he say it in a mean way or a hot way?”
I hesitate, guilt washing over me in waves. There’s no way it’s appropriate to call him hot. But then again, I did compare him to a male calendar model, and I do tell the girls everything. Finally, I mumble, “A hot way. He kind of brushed my hair out of my face, and it was too much. Too intimate. I short-circuited and basically ran back inside.”
Marin lifts a brow. “That sounds kind of sweet.”
“Not sweet,” I mutter. “Vulnerable. Awkward. Gave me way too clear a look into my issues, which is why I hated it.”
Marin’s voice stays warm, like she’s used to holding messy things without trying to clean them. “And what issues are those?”
Her knitting needles click gently in the background while I lean down to rub Frank’s head, hoping it’ll calm the pounding in my chest.
“That I built my whole life around Owen.” My voice is a whisper. “And now the loss is swallowing me whole, because I don’t know who I am if I’m not someone’s wife. Or someone’s mother.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of breath I don’t want to take.
Viv’s voice, usually flippant and wild, comes soft this time. “So who are you without those things?”
I dig my thumbnail into a spot on my jeans until it hurts. “I don’t know. I wish I did. I keep reaching for pieces of myself but all I come up with are his things. His stories. His friends.”
I glance at the screen. “Do you think I shouldn’t have flirted with Noah?”
Neither of them answers; they both just hold the silence for me.
“I mean, he and Owen were close,” I go on. “We all were. In college. It feels… wrong. Like I touched something I wasn’t supposed to. And weird.”
Still quiet.
“They played poker together every Thursday night for years. He came to Owen’s funeral. He brought us macaroni.”
Viv lets out a slow breath. “Macaroni is quite the hill to die on, Birdie.”
I laugh, but my throat’s too tight for it to last. “It just feels close. Too close to the past. Like I’m… disrespecting it.”
Frank nudges my leg with his nose and I reach down again, grateful for something solid to touch. “I don’t want to feel likeI’m stealing something. Like if I let someone see me, even just flirt with me, I’m erasing Owen. Like I’m rewriting our story.”
Marin’s cat climbs over her keyboard, blocking her face with a blur of calico fur. “Maybe you’re not rewriting anything.” Her voice carries through the fuzz. “Maybe this is just… chapter two.”
That feels too generous. Too hopeful. My voice wobbles. “But what if people think I moved on too fast?”
Viv snorts. “Anyone judging a grieving woman’s timeline can come talk to me and my chakras.”
Marin’s quiet. “Grief makes everything weird.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It does.”
