Noah hands me back my cup. “You’re good at that.”
“What, kid herding?”
“No. That thing where you step in. Without making it weird or performative. Where you want to help people.”
I shrug, suddenly shy. “Old habits. I used to think if I were helpful enough, no one would notice I didn’t have it all together.”
He tilts his head. “And now?”
“Now I’m just helpful and falling apart openly, I guess.”
We both laugh, and for a second, it feels easy and simple. The ache in my chest releases, and I forget that Owen is gone and that I’ll be going home to an empty bed.
And then the music changes.
Just a few gentle chords, strumming slow and familiar, makes me stop cold.
Owen’s song. The one he used to play while flipping pancakes in boxers and singing off-key like a drunk lumberjack.
My stomach twists. My hand grips the Solo cup like it is a flotation device in open water. Around me, people laugh and chat and clink plastic forks, but I can’t hear anything over those damn chords.
I don’t move.
Don’t cry.
Just stand there, paralyzed by the ghost of a life that used to be mine.
The guilt snakes around my heart, chastising me for forgetting to be sad the last few hours—for forgetting Owen.
Then, without a word, Noah bumps my shoulder with his.
Just a nudge. No big gesture. No intrusive questions or pity parade. Just demonstrating his presence.
And that, somehow, unravels me more than if he’d said a word.
I glance at him, blinking fast. That song still hangs in the air like smoke that I can't wave away.
He looks ahead, arms crossed, voice even. “I never knew why Owen loved this song. It’s terrible.”
I blink again, John Legend’s voice swirling around my memories. “What?”
“Cheesy as hell.” His voice is casual, like we’re discussing who won last night’s baseball game and not his dead best friend and my dead husband’s favorite song. “Sounds like it was written by a guy who’s only ever loved his cat and a deep-dish pizza.”
Despite myself, I huff out something between a laugh and a gasp. “Wow. Harsh.”
Noah shrugs. “Sorry, Birdie. I respect the dead, but I don’t have to respect their playlists.”
A beat passes. “Okay, music snob. What’s your favorite song?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“‘Return of the Mack.’”
I whip my head toward him. “Are you joking?”
“Nope.” He says it with the same calm conviction someone might use to announce they’re running for Senate.
“Return of the Mack? That’s your song?”
