But I bite my tongue. Proper women don’t tear down other women. At least that’s what the bumper stickers say. What kind of message would that send about sisterhood and the feminist cause?
Sharon turns, finally acknowledging me. “Birdie knows how incredible my Bundt cakes are. She’s been trying to duplicate one for years.”
I haven’t. I baked a chocolate cake for the first block party years ago, not knowing that cakes were Sharon’s domain. And it came out a little overbaked. Sharon has never let me forget it.
She winks like we’re in on a little secret, but in suburban housewife code, that’s a full-on culinary smackdown. “Tell him, Birdie.”
I paste on my practiced grin, the one I use to look good, keep the peace, stay prim and proper, and pay the price for my honesty—and apparently my cake. “It is delicious.”
“See?” Sharon beams. “What do you say?”
Noah glances at me for half a second. Then, casually, too casually, he grins. That annoying grin that makes my perimenopause hot flashes act up. “Actually, Birdie already asked me to go with her.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I did not. I very much did not.
He nudges my elbow, like this is a team sport we agreed to play. Like we’ve had some secret meeting about block parties and subtext and Bundt cake defense strategies.
Sharon’s smile falters enough to be satisfying, then she recovers. “Oh! Well, that’s, um, how lovely,” she chirps, though her voice goes up half an octave. “I guess I’ll see you both there. Jim and I will be thrilled to see you out of the house, Birdie.”
She walks away, hips swaying like she’s auditioning for a high-heel commercial. I wait until she’s a safe distance down the street before I turn to Noah.
“Did you say I invited you to a block party?”
“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t even bother to hide the grin.
“I was about to do it myself! You robbed me of a chance to be brave. To push the feminist movement forward.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “With a potluck?”
“Yes!” I huff. “With a potluck. There was going to be courage and intentionality and possibly a sweaty armpit situation. But no, you had to swoop in like some Bundt-cake-blocking hero.”
He shrugs, holding out a few letters to me. “You hesitated.”
I scowl, even as my cheeks betray me with a blush. “Next time, I’m inviting someone else. Maybe the UPS guy. He brings exciting boxes, and you just bring bills.” I snatch my mail. “Bills and obnoxious flyers and catalogues that suck my time and my money!”
Noah stands there, that annoying, lazy smile firmly in place. “Does the UPS guy ask about plants, lasagna, and grief?”
“Nope. But he can deliver roses and lasagna, and that medicates the grief. I’m all converted.” I storm up the porch steps, before turning on my heel. “You don’t even live here and Sharon accepted you into the fold—with lamination!”
He leans against the side of his mail truck. “In my defense, I earned this with years of loyal Bundt cake acceptance. I’ve delivered to Maple Street since 2017. At some point, they started acting like I belonged. That counts for something.”
I tilt my head. “What made you choose the mail route? I know Owen helped you get it, but do you actually like it?”
He shrugs, folding the flyer again, slower this time. “I’ve grown to like it. After the divorce, I needed the stability. As youknow, my literature degree was everything I wanted, but—” he gives a small, sad smile—“turns out readingThe Brothers Karamazovdoesn’t pay divorce lawyers.”
I give a sad smile back. “No regrets?”
He shakes his head. “None. I’d choose it again. It gave me something worth carrying. Even if now I mostly carry catalogues and real estate mailers.”
There’s something unexpectedly tender about that. A man who loves words but delivers credit card offers. I swallow against the ache that rises in my chest.
He lifts the laminated certificate and salutes me with it. “Honorary neighbor, delivering the mail. It’s what dreams are made of.”
“We need to work on your dreams.”
He grins, unapologetic. “What time should I pick you up?”
“Seven.” I’m not sure why I still sound so hostile.
