Marin: For example?
Me: How am I supposed to actually go on a date if no one has asked me out?
Viv: … Wait… are you serious?
Me: Yes, I’m serious. Last I checked, asking someone out was the guy’s job. I read a book in college that said men need the thrill of the chase. I can’t do the chasing.
Viv: That book was written in 1954 by a woman who probably hated orgasms or a man who hated women.
Me: I don’t want to emasculate him by being too forward.
Marin: You’re not proposing marriage.You’re talking about coffee.
Viv: Or fennel. Didn’t he say something about trimming your fennel plants?
Me: That’s not code, Viv.
Viv: Make it code. “Yes, Noah, I would love it if you came over and handled my delicate blossoms.”
Me: Absolutely not.
Viv: Suit yourself. But he offered. The least you could do is hand him a pair of shears and a flirtatious smile (not the one where you don’t blink. Or show too much teeth. Maybe skip the smile for now.)
Me: This still feels inappropriate.
Marin: It does have the makings of a reality tv show. Not going to lie. But reality tv drama doesn’t mean weird. Remember, it’s about feeling seen by someone who knew you before Owen.
The video call comes through and I drop the little wrench I’m fiddling with to slide the answer button over. Viv’s face fills the screen, followed quickly by Marin’s.
“This was too important for the group message thread. An intervention is needed. I have some though—wait, what are you doing over there?” Viv squints at me through the screen.
I grunt as I wedge a bolt into the underside of the table I’ve been building for the past hour. The instruction manual is taunting me with cartoon diagrams that make no anatomical sense. One leg keeps leaning inward like it’s contemplating early retirement.
“Putting together this side table from IKEA. Or, you know, attempting it without adult supervision.” I flick a rogue wooden dowel off my lap into the growing pile of leftover hardware.There’s no way all these pieces are necessary. I think they just throw in extras to test your self-esteem.
I sit back and exhale. “Owen ordered it, said it was time to replace mine after the leg finally gave out. But it was on backorder and when it came, I didn’t have the heart to deal with it. It’s been sitting in the garage ever since.”
I run my hand over the half-built tabletop, steadying it even though it’s still a little crooked. “He was supposed to put it together. But I finally dragged it out and figured, why not me?”
I shrug, like it’s no big deal, even though it kind of is. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to stand.”
Viv blinks. “Is this the same table that started our whole conversation? The same piece of infamous furniture?”
Marin blinks. “And you’re building it? By yourself?”
“Why does everyone sound so shocked? I can follow a diagram. I once diffused a fistfight between two dads over gluten-free muffins. This is nothing.”
I jiggle the table. It wobbles. Not ideal. Hopefully, neither of them noticed. But the point is it stands.
Viv lets out a low whistle. “Well damn, Birdie. Look at you doing things imperfectly. On purpose.”
“Honestly?” Marin adds. “I think that’s kind of badass.”
I try not to smile, but I might. A little. I tuck the last screw into the drawer I’ll never use and pretend I meant to do it all exactly this way.
“Our point is you don’t have to date him. Or you can. It’s up to you, and it can be a little messy and a little imperfect.” Viv nods before taking a sip from one of her many pottery mug projects.
Marin nods from her kitchen table, where I can see a half-eaten brownie and a knitting project competing for elbow room. “Yeah, like that table.”
