The crowd eats it up, and I don’t know whether to curtsy or call an orthopedist.
But then I catch my reflection in the window, flushed cheeks, dark strands of hair messy and wild, arms flailing with gusto, and I realize something shocking: I’m actually having fun.
Uncoordinated, unfiltered fun, fully leaning in.
God help me, I even try a spin I learned on TikTok at the end.
By the time I get down, I’ve sweated through my blouse and might’ve done a jazz-hands finale I’ll regret for the next decade.
“Do you think anyone was filming that?” I try to discreetly check my armpits.
Viv bounces over. “Sweetheart.” She waves her phone. “You’re already on Instagram. And TikTok. And a woman named HealingHeidi called you a goddess of grief.”
I slap my hand over my face.
There it is.
My worst nightmare.
My own words ring in my ear, “grief is private.”
Well, mine’s just gone public. In a very embarrassing way.
Marin stumbles over with a breadstick and slings her arm around my shoulder. “We’re gonna be famous. Like, widowed Spice Girls.”
“More like Sangria Seniors,” Viv mutters.
And then the lights dim, the band plays a slow song, and someone starts passing around a tambourine with glow sticks taped to it.
I glance at my glass, then the door. “I think we need fries.”
“Fries,” Marin echoes solemnly, still clinging to her breadstick. “And maybe a nap.”
We make our way toward the exit, leaving a trail of confetti from a broken party popper stuck to the back of my sensible flats. Behind us, Viv and the magician are exchanging numbers via a crystal pendulum.
This is not how I thought healing would look.
But maybe healing wears linen and dances in public and eats fries at midnight with people who remind you that you're still alive.
We barely make it ten feet from the winery before Viv flings her arm across the path like she’s directing traffic or starting a flash mob.
“Okay,” she declares. “That was either the best or worst decision we’ve made in years.”
“I haven’t danced that hard since my cousin’s second wedding,” Marin mumbles, staggering slightly in her sandals. “Or was it the third?”
I nod, trying to guide her away from a flowerbed she looks dangerously close to falling into.
Viv, now barefoot and holding her heels like trophies, pauses to admire a man leaning against a truck in the parking lot. “Is that flannel shirt for real,” she murmurs, “or am I deeply under-cuddled?”
“Oh no… Viv. Don’t.” But it’s too late. She’s already sauntering over.
“I’m going to ask him if he knows the way to the freeway,” she singsongs. “With my mouth. And maybe my hands.”
Marin hiccups. “Oh no. We lost her. I give it five minutes before she’s either making out or making up a fake identity.” Now she’s leaning heavily against my side and I’m struggling to keep us both upright. “I think she told a guy in there her name was Verona and she was a recently divorced perfume chemist.”
“To be fair,” I say, “she was wearing patchouli.”
Viv reappears, smug and slightly disheveled. “Guess who got another phone number and a free bottle of wine?”
