Me: Okay, FINE. I panicked. But enough about me. Viv, how’s that singles group you were thinking about joining?
Viv: I see you. I see you're deflecting. I will address that later. The singles group is sad. Not anything like our group. Motion to change my grief dare for this week?
Marin: You picked a dud. I’m the only one who looks like I’m nailing this week’s dare. Is judging other obviously sad people considered progress?
Me: Maybe the group’s not a dud. It’s showing you that people can be happy by themselves with theirown thoughts.
Marin: I say it counts as progress, but stop judging me.
Viv: Your plan backfired. That group proved the opposite.
Marin: Fine. How about we change your dare to a solo yoga session in nature? No class, no teacher, just you in the grass (no smoking it) and some time to process.
Viv: That one speaks to my soul. And my glutes. I shall commune with the Earth and pretend not to notice the ants crawling on me. Very healing. Very primal.
Me: Nailed it, Marin. How’s your grief dare coming?
Marin: I wrote Theo a letter and then immediately shredded it. My feelings varied from great to violent to something like healing? Maybe?
Me: Your challenge was to decide if you were going to tell the kids about what you and Theo were going through.
Marin: I know. I wrote it out in a letter to Theo. Like we were trying to decide together. I don’t know if it will do more harm than good now. He’s gone.
Me: Want advice or a sounding board?
Marin: Right now, sounding board.
Viv: Whew, okay. That’s a relief. Because I’ve got zero advice for this one, and you know the universe and I are usually on a first-name basis. Always here for you, Marin.
But Birdie, your grace period has officially expired.
Me: Oh my. Look at the time. I got to go, um, take Frank out.
Viv: TOMORROW. We’re not dragging this out. You don’t want to let Sharon and her bundt cakes win, Birdie.
Marin: We believe in you. But also, tick tock.
______________
I stand on my porch, gripping the banister like it’s going to help me find the courage I clearly left inside next to Frank and my Spanx. Noah is a few houses down, walking his route with the same easy rhythm he always has.
Today’s the day. I’m going to ask him.
I smooth my hair, adjust the waistline of my floor-length, floral skirt, like I’m preparing to walk down the runway, instead of stepping off my porch.
“Noah—”
But before I can say another word, a voice slices through the air like a sugar-coated dagger.
“Noah! Noah!”
I watch his jaw tense from here. The grimace flashes across his face so fast he probably thinks I didn’t catch it. But I did. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Sharon approaches with a bounce in her step, her perfectly permed blonde hair bobbing with each overly rehearsed movement. She’s dressed in workout clothes that have probably never seen a squat and is carrying what looks like a flyer and a mission.
“I thought you couldn’t hear me.” Her voice is breathy and amused, and she titters as she runs a manicured hand over his arm like she’s checking it for durability. “I know you aren’t an official neighbor, but we’re having a neighborhood block party, and I would love for you to attend. You’ve been doing this route for years, and I made a motion to make you an honorary neighbor.”She shoves the flyer into his hand and what looks like a little “official Maple street neighbor certificate.” Her hand lingers longer than I feel is necessary for a flyer handoff. “My Bundt cakes are famous around south Seattle for a reason, you know. And if you can’t find a dish to bring, I’ll let you share mine.”
My mouth falls open a little in quiet horror. Her flirtation is so bold it should come with a legal disclaimer. I’m tempted to ask whether her short, balding, beige-sweater-wearing husband, the one who quotes traffic laws at dinner parties, would be thrilled to hear she’s offering to share her Bundt cake with the mailman.
