“You started this grief dare book,” Viv goes on, pointing at the screen with a painted pink nail. “You’re my fearless leader. Don’t chicken out now that we’re heading into battle.”
Marin nods solemnly, then spoils it by grinning. “Now text him.”
I pause, wiping my hands on my jeans, which are now smudged with whatever mystery grease came from the bag of bolts. “I don’t have his number. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Viv leans in, raising a single, judgmental eyebrow. “Step one: Get his phone number. Step two: fennel. Go.”
______________
Frank gives his trademark warning bark before the mail truck even pulls up, and I glance at the clock like it’s suddenly responsible for my fate. 9:39 AM. Too early to look like I tried. Too late to pretend I didn’t.
I open the door as Noah steps out of the truck, his baseball cap slightly askew, box in hand, mail tucked under one arm. He’s wearing a fleece jacket this time, thank God, though the sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows. Of course.
“Morning, Birdie!” His voice is cheerful in a way that makes me suspicious of anyone who delivers bills with a smile.
“Hey. Mail day!” I point at the package in his hand, and then wish I could take the words back.
“Technically, Monday through Saturday is mail day.” He gives me a crooked smile.
“Yes, yes. Anything good, or am I the proud recipient of more home gardening magazines?” I tilt my head toward the box in his hand.
He hands it over. “Just this. And it appears you’ve been chosen to receive what appears to be a magazine featuring a very important set of seasonal throw pillows.”
I look down at the magazine cover. “I hate how accurate that probably is.”
A brief silence settles, and I flip through the few pieces of mail, hoping for a conversational lifeline. “Well, this one’s from aseed company, so I might get some real plants to accompany the fake ones on my impending throw pillows.”
Noah nods. “You do have a beautiful garden. Besides the rogue butterfly garden.”
He set it up perfectly. “Oh! Speaking of that…” I pause, mentally slapping myself for being so obvious. “You mentioned helping with trimming them.”
His eyebrows show up, and he shifts on his feet. “Offer still stands.”
“Well.” I blink. “They’re very fennel-like. Still wild. Still weedy.”
“I grew up helping my grandmother prune her garden every spring. It’s oddly satisfying work.”
I nod, the idea sounding oddly intimate now that he’s repeating it out loud. “I might take you up on that.”
There’s a pause. I hold the box a little tighter.
“I don’t want to cross any weird lines.” My voice comes out fast and breathy. “I know you and Owen were close and then not so close. You knew both of us, together. And it’s probably strange that I’m even talking to you like this. About fennel.”
Noah tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Owen and I will always be close. But that doesn’t make it weird. Unless you think it does.”
I open my mouth. Then close it. “I don’t know what I think. Most of the time, I still expect him to walk through the door with a grocery bag and ask where we keep the cumin.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods and stares at the plants, as though he’s trying to figure something out that I’m not aware of.
“I’m not trying to be inappropriate,” I add, my voice smaller now. “It’s hard to know what’s allowed. After.”
His voice is gentle. “Grief doesn’t come with rulebooks. Only a lot of people pretending it does.”
I glance down at the box in my arms again. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“You didn’t. Always a pleasure to talk to you.” His face breaks into a charming half-smile.
I hesitate. “Could I text you, you know, if I decide the garden needs a trim?”
