It hits me with a sucker punch of sweet, tangy, and, was thattuna? No. Pineapple. Wait. Both? “Oh no. Oh no. That is, well, that’s aggressive.”
Noah scoops a bite for himself and recoils like he’s licked a battery. “How is it simultaneously gelatinous and crunchy?”
“Is this how I die?” I cough. “Taken out by pineapple-fish paste at a neighborhood potluck? I always knew I’d go out dramatically, but I hoped for something with better seasoning.”
He leans in, eyes crinkling. “At least you’ll die fancy. Your earrings are working overtime.”
I roll my eyes and move over toward an empty spot on the curb, plopping down into the grass. “You know, I used to spend two hours prepping for events like this?”
“No.”
“Yes. Hair curled. Lip gloss layered. Pinterest-worthy snacks labeled with calligraphy. One time, I made a crudités board shaped like the American flag.”
“Of course you did.”
“I made radish stars.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I raise my fork to his. “To courage. And gastrointestinal bravery.”
He clinks it against mine. “To surviving until dessert.”
Right as we are about to take our final bites, a voice calls across the street. “Hey! Birdie! We need two more for cornhole!” and before I can say I’d rather take my chances with the Cool Whip chaser, Noah raises both his hands and rushes forward.
He looks over his shoulder at me, still planted firmly against the cool cement curb. “Come on! Live dangerously. Again.”
“Do I look like someone who plays cornhole?” I hiss.
He waggles his eyebrows. “Not touching that one.”
“Ugh, you know what I mean.”
But then I find myself holding a beanbag, standing barefoot on lumpy grass, wondering when I became the kind of woman who played yard games in flats and fitted jeans. My old self, the one desperate for neighborhood approval, always-smiling, well-manicured version, would be horrified. She would’ve stood politely to the side, cheering him on, pretending to scroll on her phone and looking for reasons to go “check the oven.”
Now? I launch my beanbag with a dramatic arm swing and whoop when it lands squarely on the board. “Take that, Jim!”
Jim, across the lawn in a monogrammed windbreaker, looks personally offended.
Noah whoops behind me. “You’re a menace!”
“Am I trash-talking? Is this who I am now?” I turn to him, eyes wide with faux horror.
“I’m so proud of you.” He raises his cup in mock salute. “Birdie 2.0: now with sports-based aggression.”
We lose the game, barely, and I stick my tongue out at Jim as we pass each other before giving him a gentle side hug and thanking him for the game.
A little while later, I spot a kid wobbling through the yard, maybe five years old, his face blotchy with tears and his paper plate sliding dangerously sideways.
“Hold this.” I hand Noah my lemonade and move on instinct.
I crouch beside the kid, gently righting the mound of food that includes both spaghetti and marshmallows. “Hey, little man. Let’s fix this up, huh?”
He nods solemnly, sniffling.
“Alright. Operation Plate Rescue. You steer. I stabilize.”
Together, we make our way across the lawn toward a flustered woman waving from a picnic table while trying to wrangle three other kids under five. I pat him on the head and stand up, brushing grass off my knees.
