“What pact?”
“The unspoken one we’re now speaking aloud,” Marin replies. “Support, no judgment, and showing up. Preferably with snacks.”
“And backup vocals,” Viv adds. “And me doing yoga on your front lawn at sunrise every morning.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “My neighbors already think I’m unstable after that block party.”
“Perfect.” Marin grins. “Let’s give them something to talk about.”
And just like that, the idea of my dead husband’s would-be-birthday doesn’t feel terrifying anymore. It doesn’t feel like trying too hard or not doing enough. It feels like maybe the best way forward is through the palm tree cooler—the kind of party where Owen would’ve laughed the loudest.
Chapter Fourteen
I stare at the front door like it might open and swallow me whole.
“I don’t know why I’m nervous,” I mumble, wiping invisible lint off my ironed jeans for the third time. Harper had mocked me for a full five minutes while I pressed them earlier, complete with air quotes and runway commentary.
“Ooh, nothing says ‘casual-chic’ like heat-pressed denim!” she’d teased, draped dramatically across the couch like a judgmental fashion editor. “You trying to impress your grief girlfriends or the mailman?”
“It’s not like they’re royalty,” I add now, mostly to myself. “Or strangers I’m picking up for a blind date.”
Harper appears in the hallway, wearing a flowy sundress and her favorite Bohemian crocheted purse slung across her shoulder, her hair pulled up into a messy bun that looks accidental but is absolutely curated. She’s the kind of effortlessly cool I used to pretend to be.
“They kind of are royalty.” She nudges me aside to grab a granola bar from the counter. “At least in the weird little world of your grief Zooms. You’re basically meeting the Real Housewives of Widowhood. Or like… the Sisterhood of the Traveling Trauma.”
“Thanks. That helps.”
She grins, unwrapping the bar. “I mean it in a good way. Viv seems terrifying in a fun, aunt-who-drinks-margaritas-before-noon kind of way. Except maybe with her, it’s not margaritas. Maybe it’s like… pine soda she fermented herself in the woods while aligning her heart chakra with a family of squirrels.”
I snort despite myself.
“And Marin’s totally the sweet one who pretends she doesn’t need anyone except her cats, but the second she meets Frank, she’ll fall in love with dogs and realize that maybe her life needs more than zooms and felines and then, bam!, instant family.”
I give her a look. “You’ve constructed full backstories for both of them, haven’t you?”
“Absolutely. I’ve seen your Zooms. I had to build lore to keep myself invested. Plus, someone has to balance out the drama now that Matt’s not around to hog the oxygen with his Division II basketball glory.”
She says it quickly, but she has the same look on her face that she did fifteen years ago and suddenly I’m transported to our backyard. A memory of the two of them playing in the backyard together flashes across my mind, Harper in tears when Matt wanted to shoot hoops with his friends and didn’t want her to tag along. “I see it now. You miss him.”
Harper shrugs. “I do. But also, college Matt is a whole new species. He sends me gym selfies and reels of motivational quotes like he’s trying to become someone’s favorite podcast guest.”
“You’re not wrong.” I laugh. “He texted me last week asking for protein powder recommendations. I told him, ‘Do I look like someone who would have a ready-to-go list of protein powder or more like someone who still eats Pop-Tarts when I’m sad?’”
“I feel like this is a trick question, so I’m going to go with the protein powder list. Where have you been hiding it, Mom? And have I mentioned how nice those gains are looking.”
I don’t even bother asking what “gains” means. Instead, I take a deep breath and grab my keys and sunglasses, more forsomething to do with my hands than because I need them. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Looking over my shoulder, I fling open the door, glancing behind me to see if I grabbed my phone off the table before careening straight into a wall of hard muscle. My body might have enjoyed it if not for the shock and surprise of running into a sculpted male chest when opening my front door.
Noah.
He’s standing on my porch with a Tupperware container in one hand, the other raised to the door frame as though debating if he should knock. I fight back a smile, picturing him waffling on my front step without the confidence of his mail.
“Oh.” I try to tamp down the blush I know is turning my cheeks cherry red from the aforementioned physical contact. “Hi?”
“I need you.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You need me?”
