“For a mission. This is Mildred’s container. I’m pretty sure she has mine. And I want it back.” Noah’s voice is low, as though we’re already conspiring.
I mimic his tone, leaning my head closer. “What’s so important about this container?”
“It’s one of those nice ones.” His eyes stare into mine, mock serious. “The glass one with the special suction lid. It’s my favorite.”
That’s it. I take three steps back, throwing my hands in the air. “Who has a favorite container?”
“People who like leftovers.”
“So why’re you knocking on my door with your container peace treaty?” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the street. “Mildred is three houses down.”
“I need backup.”
“You need me to go with you to retrieve your container?”
“Well, um, yeah. And maybe help me avoid that awkward conversation with Mildred about how I took three months toreturn her Tupperware after a holiday party.” Noah shoves a hand in his pocket, scuffing a tennis shoe along the worn boards of my front porch. “Plus, I figured since you fearlessly faced Sharon and her Bundt cake at that block party, you might be a good wingwoman to fend off any, you know, hostile container negotiators.”
“Scared?”
“Terrified.”
Harper appears in the doorway like a secret agent barging in on a covert operation, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure Mom would love to go with you, but we’re actually running a little late for the airport.”
“Airport?” I blink a few times. “Oh, uh, yes.” I try to tamp down the sudden onslaught of butterflies staging a full rebellion in my stomach. “Company.”
“Company?” Noah repeats. “Visitors?”
“Just Mom’s grief gals,” Harper tosses over her shoulder as she strides over to my sensible Subaru.
“Grief gals? How do I have more questions every time one gets answered?”
I shrug, looking down at my open-toed sandals. I don’t know why I hadn’t told Noah about my grief group before. It technically falls into one of our three approved texting categories—“lasagna,” “plants,” and “grief”—but it never came up.
Harper leans out the passenger door, calling, “They’re like a secret society, but instead of secret handshakes, they do group therapy with their favorite respective drinks and grief dares.”
Noah smiles in that lazy, lopsided way that makes me momentarily forget I’m a grieving widow and not the lead in a rom-com with a very confusing rating.
“Sounds intense.” His voice is warm and a little teasing. “I hope I get the chance to meet them?”
I force a small laugh and try to keep my expression neutral, but my cheeks are heating up again, traitors that they are. This whole thing, Noah on my porch, his Tupperware diplomacy,the way he keeps looking at me like he sees past all the careful armor I’ve put on, is starting to make me feel uncomfortably alive.
He leans in slightly, not enough to cross a line, but enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I want to hear more about these grief dares. And if I’ve been used for any of them.”
My mouth opens. Closes. I want to assure him he hasn’t, but really, he’s been a leading player in most of mine so far.
“I plead the fifth,” I mumble, then try to pivot toward the car like I’m not mildly combusting.
He glances down at the container in his hand like he’s just remembered why he’s here. “Well,” he steps back, “I’ll leave you to your grief society, then.”
“Thanks.” I nod too fast, like a bobblehead on a caffeine bender. “Airport run awaits. Have fun with the Tupperware hostage situation.”
I’m already halfway to the car before I realize I didn’t even ask how he’s doing. I didn’t offer coffee or small talk or anything resembling the person I used to be. The new version of me, the one standing with shaky hands and a heart doing the Macarena, is just trying not to drown.
Harper waves enthusiastically from the van, shooting Noah a wink. “See you later, Noah.”
Noah waves awkwardly. “Later, ladies.”
Harper snaps her seat belt into place with a barely contained smirk. “He totally wanted to be invited inside.”
