“You, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “You clean up alright, B.”
His voice is quieter than usual, like even saying that much borders on betrayal.
“Is that flattery?” Is it inappropriate to mention how well he cleans up? His white button-up shirt accentuates his tan skin, and he’s put some kind of gel in his short hair, causing the dark strands to stand up in delicious disarray. “Or are you buttering me up so I’ll carry your mystery dish?”
He lifts a foil-covered casserole with a flourish, and I hate that I notice how his forearm flexes as he does it. “Nope. I take full credit for this beauty.”
I fall into step beside Noah, my own foil-covered dish warm in my hands as we head up the street. The evening is golden and twilight is setting in with porch lights beginning to flicker on like quiet applause for summer's last act.
“You cooked?” I go to nudge him with my elbow but pull back at the last minute, worried about any kind of physical touch.
He smirks. “I’m a single bachelor who likes to eat. Of course I cooked.”
I raise a brow. “And what did you bring into existence?”
“Jalapeño mac and cheese.” He raises the dish in mock reverence. “With bacon. Possibly too much bacon.”
“There’s no such thing. Bacon is both flavor and philosophy.”
He glances down at the dish I’m carrying. “And what about you? What’s under that expertly folded foil?”
“Nachos.” I fight the urge to let my bangs fall over my face like some self-conscious teenager. “I could’ve gone fancier. Honestly, I usually do. I’ve been known to hand-stencil labels for artisanal dips and cut fruit bouquets. Owen used to joke that I had a pathological need to win the potluck.”
Noah snorts. “That tracks.”
I laugh, but it’s tight in my throat. “But after he died, I didn’t have the energy. Caring about what people thought and managing the sadness took too much energy. So tonight, I told myself that I was going to throw something together and be done with it.”
He tilts his head, curious. “And what’s on these so-called ‘thrown together’ nachos?”
I sigh. “Black beans, ground steak, roasted corn, green onions. Three kinds of cheese. A homemade guac on the side. I dusted the chips with lime zest and sea salt before baking.”
Noah stops walking and turns to look at me fully. “Birdie, that’s not phoning it in. That’s you still giving it your best.”
I shrug, a little embarrassed. “That’s still dialed back Birdie. I didn’t want to feel like I was trying too hard to impress everyone, because that’s not the point. I want to show up and not perform for once.” Why was I telling him this? He had only asked a simple question about nachos.
“It’s okay to show up with your best.” His voice is gentle like the warm sunlight caressing into my back. “But it should be because you want to. Because you love feeding people. Not because you think you have to earn their affection with perfectly melted cheese.”
I blink, caught off guard by how accurate he is.
He nudges my arm, less teasing now, more grounded. “You don’t have to hustle for anyone’s love, Birdie. Prove that you werethe perfect wife and now the have-it-all-together widow. You get to show up. However you are.”
I look down at the dish in my hands. They’re just nachos, but they also aren’t. They’re the halfway point between who I was and who I’m trying to be—cheesy, overdone, and still made with care.
I meet his eyes, grateful. “You’re still kind of annoyingly insightful, you know that?”
He grins. “I’ve been told.”
______________
The block party is already in full swing. Lights zigzag across the cul-de-sac, folding tables groaning under the weight of communal carbs, and children darting between lawn chairs like over-caffeinated squirrels. I clutch my nachos, trying not to feel like I’m walking through a minefield instead of a simple neighborhood event.
“Birdie!”
The voice cuts through the murmur of the block party like a knife through Jell-O salad. I turn to see Mildred marching toward me, her sensible flats slapping against the pavement with a purpose that says she’s got questions and zero concern for boundaries.
Still spry at seventy-something, she’s dressed in her signature twinset and pearls, looking like a cross between a church lady and a mafia don. Her gaze could slice deli meat.
“Oh, sweet girl.” She reaches out to pat my arm with a hand weighed down by a ring the size of a gumball. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
