Viv snorts. “That is not a real thing.”
“It is,” I argue weakly. “They said I bring legacy continuity.”
Marin, now several sips in and aggressively swirling her wine. “You bring Costco napkins, repressed rage, and the ability to make everyone else’s life easier. I know the drill.Theo loved it when I was distracted with some PTA project. He swore it made me less ‘needy.’”
Viv points a finger at Marin. “You have needs. You are not needy.” Then she grabs the phone from my hand mid-keystroke. “And you are not a legacy anything. You are not bringing kale muffins to the next fundraising bake sale. You’re going on a date with the hot mailman. And you’re letting the PTA figure out snacks like the grown adults they pretend to be.”
I reach for the phone, but she holds it hostage behind her back. “I will write an out-of-office response if I have to.”
“Viv…”
She narrows her eyes. “Birdie. Look me in the face and say you want to spend your one wild and precious life chasing carrot sticks for underfunded extracurriculars instead of dancing with the man who brings you flowers.”
I slump back into my chair and groan. “Fine. I’m muting the thread.”
Marin raises her glass like a toast. “To bold moves.”
Viv clinks hers against mine. “To unsubscribing from martyrdom.”
And just like that, I start to feel it—not the sangria exactly, but the possibility. The tiniest shimmer of something I can do for me.
We’ve moved from sangria to the dregs of a forgotten bottle of prosecco Marin found behind the rice cooker. Viv poured it with zero shame into mismatched mugs and declared it “festive.” Things have escalated.
Viv tops off our glasses with a dramatic flourish, like she’s christening a new ship. “Okay. So. Are you going to seduce the mailman or what?”
I nearly choke on my drink. “I’m going to need more wine before we even say the word seduce.”
Viv grins. “That’s not a no.”
I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “I haven’t kissedanyone but Owen in over two decades. I’m not even sure I remember how.”
“Oh, please.” Marin leans back in her chair like a therapist on her third glass. “It’s like riding a bike. A really attractive, emotionally available bike who brings you credit card offers and Pottery Barn catalogs.”
“I’m serious!” I protest. “My flirting skills are from 1994 and involve sending mix CDs.”
Viv leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Have you at least thought about lingerie?”
I blink. “I’ve never bought lingerie.”
The room goes quiet for a beat.
“Good.” Viv flops dramatically onto the couch, her drink sloshing dangerously close to the faded material, although to be fair, that’s not the worst thing this couch has been splashed with. “That stuff is overrated and overpriced. Who pays $80 for strips of lace?”
“Exactly,” Marin agrees, swirling her drink. “Wear your birthday suit!”
I snort. “My birthday suit is white, faded, and stretched out.”
Viv gasps. “Don’t talk about your birthday suit that way! She carried babies and trauma and still looks hot in fluorescent lights.”
“Viv, no one looks good in fluorescent lights,” I deadpan.
Viv raises her mug. “Okay, hot in warm, mood lighting.”
Marin cackles. “You’re like one of those candlelit Renaissance nudes. Tired, gorgeous, possibly holding fruit.”
“I am always holding a snack,” I admit, laughing until I wheeze.
We’re tipsy now. Enough for my fear to dissolve into boldness. Or maybe truth.
