But grief is sticky. It clings to you even when no one’s watching. And is it ever alright to forget the person you loved?
So I do what I’ve always done.
I smile. The same smile I’ve worn my whole adult life: Polite. Polished. Appropriate.
His gaze drops for half a second—like maybe he’s carrying something too. Maybe he knows what it’s like to want something and feel guilty for wanting it.
He opens the front door for me and steps back.“Goodnight, Birdie.”
And then he disappears into the night like some tortured rom-com antihero with excellent posture and self-control I deeply resent.
I sit there in the silence for a moment, pulse racing, lips still tingling, trying to remember how breathing works. I try to smile like I’m calm and unbothered, not internally spiraling about what I did wrong or whether my lips taste like breadsticks.
I watch his taillights fade, feeling equal parts flushed and feral.
“Stupid perimenopause,” I mutter, unlocking the door and stomping inside like a rejected Disney princess in orthopedic slippers.
But even as I kick off my shoes and lean against the door, I know better.
This isn’thormones.
It’shim.
And now I have a real problem. Because I want him to do it again.
But longer.
Without stopping.
Chapter Eighteen
“Grape Goodness or Guava Goddess?” Viv punctuates her question with the fizzy pop of a kombucha cap twisting loose. A jet of bubbles fizzes over the rim like it’s trying to escape.
My kitchen looks like the party aisle at Party City had an emotional breakdown, glitter, catalogs, metallic fringe curtains, inflatable flamingos, and about four hundred sample napkins, most of which are either sequined or themed around being “over the hill.”
“Is water still an option?” Marin eyes the bottle with the suspicion of someone about to lick a subway pole on a dare. “I’m not sure my intestines have recovered from the last round of this stuff.”
“Girl, water was never an option,” I half-whisper behind my hand as Viv waves two wine glasses in our direction like a kombucha sommelier.
“Is it supposed to sound like that?” Marin asks, wincing.
“Is it supposed to smell like that?” I wrinkle my nose.
“Yes,” Viv declares, pouring with flair. “That’s the sound of fermentation and gut magic. Don’t question the gut magic.”
“When you said you’d grab drinks, I thought you meant a classic bottle of red. You know, something with a cork. Not thisfizzy foot juice. You sabotaged us with it last time, and I’m not falling for it again.”
“Too much alcohol kills your liver and your aura,” Viv says serenely. “Fine for a wild night or a steamy romance novel binge, but you can’t live off the stuff. We’re here to restore, not rot.”
The three of us clink glasses. Marin sips.
Her face does things. Regret. Confusion. Possibly betrayal.
“Tastes more like vinegar than last time,” she mumbles.
“That’s the gut biome calling you to the dance floor.” Viv’s already half-finished with hers. “Bottoms up.”
I raise my glass. “To Owen’s fiftieth. And breaking every PTA rule in the handbook.”
