I lift a foot and carefully swipe a brush of coral polish across my left toes before realizing I really need my reading glasses to get any kind of clue if I’m actually hitting the nail or not. “You two do not know how to do a girl’s night.”
Viv snorts. “You’re painting your toes with a glass of wine in a sippy cup next to you. Don’t throw stones, Birdie.”
“It has a lid.” I hold up the spill-proof wine cup as if it were evidence in court before slipping on my glasses and returning my attention to my toes. “I’m being practical.”
They all laugh, and for a moment, the screen feels like a real living room. Not three women in different zip codes doing their own unique versions of pampering.
Viv spins her feather like a baton. “Marin, you first. How’s the letter writing going?”
Marin sighs and pushes her spoon around the mousse cup. “Surprisingly hard. I started writing what I was mad at Theo for, and I ended up filling four pages. Then I felt guilty and made his favorite meal. I think I’m a little emotionally unhinged.”
Viv shrugs. “That means you’re doing it right.”
I look up from the smudge of coral I’m trying to remove from the side of my foot. “It’s real, though. You’re allowed to be angry at someone who hurt you, even if they’re not here anymore to deal with it.”
Marin offers a small, grateful smile. “Thanks. I think I needed to hear that.”
“I did it.” Viv swings her hand over her forehead like she’spreparing to faint at the memory alone. “I took myself out to dinner. Sat alone at a tiny table for one. Ordered wine. Made eye contact with no one. And felt very pathetic.”
Marin snorts, almost spitting out the huge bite of chocolate mousse she just took a bite of. “You were supposed to sit with your grief. Not throw it a pity party at Olive Garden.”
“It was a very chic little bistro, thank you.” Viv points her nose in the air. “But fine, yes. I was deeply uncomfortable the entire time. The server asked if I was waiting for someone, and I nearly said, ‘Just my dead husband,’ to make it awkward for both of us. No reason for me to suffer alone.”
I glance up from the clear polish I’m applying to my toes. “Honestly, you’d be giving that poor server a go-to icebreaker for every awkward first date when he’s looking for an interesting conversation topic. In a roundabout way, a part of you would be going on dozens of first dates vicariously.”
Viv leans in toward the camera. “Birdie. I’m proud of you! That was a very me thing to say. But the alone-date did something weird. Sitting there, by myself, I realized how much I fill every inch of silence. With my phone, with noise, with jokes. Being alone with my brain is not relaxing.”
Marin nods. “It never is at first.”
Viv points at the camera. “Okay, therapy club leader. Your turn.”
I prop my phone up on the coffee table and snuggle my knees up to my chest, trying not to smudge my wet nails. “Mine involves lasagna and mild emotional panic.”
Viv leans in. “You cooked for a man?”
“You went on a date?” Marin waves her spoon.
“I reheated,” I correct. “For Noah. He helped with the garden and then we sat on the porch. Talked. Ate.”
Marin lifts her eyebrows. “Talked?”
“Only talked. About Owen. About college. About life. It was weird. And not weird. He remembered things I forgot. Things about when we all first met. It was sweet, but also…”
“Loaded?” Marin offers.
“Exactly.” I pause, taking a swig out of my sippy cup. “There was a moment where I almost forgot I was supposed to feel guilty. And then I remembered. It’s like my brain keeps flashing Owen’s face anytime I let myself enjoy something.”
Viv softens, rubbing the goo from her chin. “Birdie. You fed a man. That’s not betrayal. That’s lasagna.”
I smile despite myself. “It was burnt around the edges. Just how Owen liked it. But still,” I add, “it was the first time in a long time I didn’t feel completely alone.”
Viv sighs and flops dramatically back into her chair. “Okay, I’m officially the least emotionally evolved of the group. You’re out here reheating heart-healing lasagna, and I’m trying not to cry into crème brûlée for one.”
Marin lifts an eyebrow. “You ordered crème brûlée?”
Viv sits up and points at the screen, as if she's been waiting to be asked. “Yes. I sat through dinner and even went for the final round—dessert. At a bistro. With a candle. And a server who definitely thought I’d been stood up.”
Marin nods. “That is brave.”
