This moment is what I’d been dreading, and hoping to avoid by adding more people to the mix, but now I’m wondering if I exacerbated the awkwardness. We all stare at each other in silence, sipping our drinks.
Noah tries to bridge the silence with some kind of group opener. “So how do you all know each other?”
It’s a soft ball, really. An innocent, friendly question. And it is the absolute wrong thing to say.
Viv sets down her glass and grins like a cat who sees the can opener. “Oh. We’re part of a club.”
Marin shakes her head, eyes darting around the room as though she’s hoping to be rescued by the server asking if we’d like more wine. When the silence stretches for a few more uncomfortable seconds, she finally blurts out, “The Dead Husbands Society.”
Marin’s date, Len, pushes his glasses further up his nose, a very uncomfortable laugh leaving his lips. “The what?” He probably thinks he misheard.
Viv doubles down cheerfully. “The Dead. Husbands. Society.”
His laughter stalls in his throat. Viv’s date leans forward like he’s hoping for an explanation but also questioning the universe for leading him here. There’s another thick beat of silence where we all look at our menus and pretend like this is normal.
Noah’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh beside me.
I want to disappear. Or dissolve. Or hide under the table where our newly appointed grief mascot, Frank, would be snoring if he were allowed in public spaces.
“Should I be worried?” Len finally asks, one brow raised, probably wondering if we meet in graveyards.
“Only if you lie about your favorite color or try to explain cryptocurrency to me.” Viv’s eyes stay fixed on her menu, her face a perfect composition of seriousness, and I can see her date move a few visible inches closer to his corner of the table.
Noah’s arm brushes mine, and I feel goosebumps radiating up my skin. “Is this how you introduce each other regularly?”
I glance at him sideways, trying to read if he’s judging me or entertained. “Only on triple dates with complete strangers. We like to weed out the faint of heart.”
He laughs, low and genuine. “Mission accomplished.”
“So, who named the club?”
I pretend to study the drink list. “Um, well, it was a group effort.”
He doesn’t respond, and I can feel the weight of his stare while I keep my eyes fixed on the menu.
“Okay, fine. It was me.”
The others break into side conversations, presumably about our society, while Noah leans toward me, voice low. “You haven’t changed.”
I raise an eyebrow, peering over the menu. “I’ve changed a lot.”
“Maybe. On the outside. But that doesn’t change who you are. I enjoy all the versions of you I’ve seen. It’s just that introduction, the name of the club…” He laughs softly. “You’ve always had a thing for making people wildly uncomfortable.”
I glance over at him, happy to see everyone else is still engaged in their own conversations. “That’s a bold accusation.”
“You once hosted a mock funeral for your goldfish. Owen gave the eulogy, and you made everyone walk a candlelit lap around the dorm.”
“Oh God.” I cringe, smiling despite myself. “You remember that?”
“I still remember the haiku you wrote about his 'brief but slippery life.'”
“Okay, in my defense, Gil was a fighter. He survived a week in a cracked tank, and I’m pretty sure he’s Lord of the Underworld Sewers after I flushed him down the toilet. And it wasn’tthatdramatic.” I try my best to sound serious, knowing that my statement about Gil’s life added to the evidence that I can still be quite dramatic at times.
“You made Owen wear a thrifted suit and conduct the ceremony like a Methodist minister. You had a soundtrack. There were printed programs.”
“It was performance art.”
Noah takes a sip of his wine before pursing his lips together. “You made me build a casket out of stolen cafeteria trays.”
